"Peace~love" I whisper, two fingers up, out the car window, backing down the drive. She throws a kiss. Shakes her head. "I'm not like you" she confesses over Margarita's at the beach, 21 and all grown up. I smile. Her brown eyes, mud puddle paper plates, playing frisbee with my own. Her brown skin, yen and yang with mine, her dark hair, the same. I watch her hands talking. Ten tiny fingers, piano playing words. Her toes, cheese curls. Mine stretched out, reaching, skinny in the sun. My child. Beautiful. And different. I hear the fight, an echo in the wind. "You"re dark" he yells. "You're pale" she blasts him. My children. Five and six, throwing words. Swords.
And then they're older. "You're adopted" he yells. "You're not" she ping~pongs him. "You're my children" I whisper. Praying for peace.
Peace would be a long time coming. There would be first dates and sleepless nights. Crawls out the window. Bumper benders and "I think I'll sue you's". Police at the door on sunny afternoons, broken windows, and broken hearts. Stray children staying for the night, or the week-end, or until their own parents fetched them home. Prom nights and after party's. Camp outs and Cahoots. Growing up.
Last night we grilled chicken. Sat at the same table. Adults. "Why didn't you bring you're girlfriend, sweetie?" "You know, we want to meet her"....He swallows marinated cajun cookin' in chunks, "She's not like you....." he mutters in between bites. She smiles. In between spoonfuls. Her belly swelling. Expecting her own. "We're family, Jonah"
"Bring her next time"....