The night before you joined our family, the moon went into a total eclipse for the first time on a Northern Winter's Solstice since 1638. Three hundred and eighty two years ago. Can you even imagine that? Probably not, because we're still working at counting past twenty. But, Rembrandt and Rubens were still in their prime. The great Shakespearian tragedies were little over forty years old. The steam turbine was a new invention. Between then and now, generation after generation of people celebrated Christmas, Hanukkah, or Ramadan, lost loved ones, celebrated births, made their way, day by day, year by year, hurt by hurt until when we are now. Tuesday, December 21, 2010. The day our earth turned back toward the sun, if only for one more second of light.
The morning before you joined our family, your daddy gave you a bath while I ran the dogs. The shining full moon set over Mount Susitna and the Cook Inlet. The temperature didn't rise above ten and I moved footstep after footstep as I've done for forty-six years, but never so hopeful or purposeful or contented or happy. At one point, and I am not kidding you, the sky kept singing. I looked up and four songbirds were in nearby spruce serenading away, one less than a foot from my reach. As if in farewell, they leaped from the tree, dove forward, and made their way west. One day, one morning, one song, no different than other days, other mornings, other songs, other than for this. The birds were trumpeting you.
The hour before you joined our family, I was in the car driving us to meet your father for our adoption celebration. Every moment I thought about you brought tears to my eyes, even the moments when you are not at all happy with me (too soon for bed time, too little jumping, too much medicine) and when I thought of the one person I wanted to share this moment with, it was of a best friend from high school days who knew how much you would mean to me, but has been long out of touch. It's funny isn't it? How something as powerful as becoming a new mom makes you yearn for everything that has gone before. Friends, grandfathers and grandmothers, uncles, aunts, and cousins. Those that loved us with unbreakable devotion. Everything I want for you.
The minute before you joined our family, I turned around and we were surrounded. With grandparents (did I tell you your Grandfather sung "Honey Honey" over the courtroom sound system?) and sisters, co-workers and colleagues, friends and children. They were all here for us Abigail. Some, I know, joined us on their darkest of days, to welcome you to our family. To herald our joining. To say God speed or namaste. To give grace. To share in a moment that went like an instant, but will build our entire lifetimes.
The moment you joined our family, Abigail, I lost my voice. Me! Your mother, who can make a mountain out of any mole hill. I couldn't even say my name. I wonder if it's because it doesn't mean everything to me now. I don't just get to be Joan. I get to be your Mom.
Abigail Lorraine Marie Wilson. What more can I say than your name? For you are here now. Three hundred eight two years in the making or in just a moment? Who is to say? But, today, the birds sang.
I join them in chorus. Welcome home, Abigail, my beautiful daughter.
