A call to prayer, a day old cup of coffee heavy with sugar and grounds, berbere stained fingers, a cold shower, a broken watch that wakes by the hour, a sadness deep, a new dress, bracelets, a scarf. These are the details.
A day to meet _____. A day to say I am sorry. A day to say thank you.
The words above are what I wrote in my journal. I wrote in the wee hours of Sunday morning before we set off for Hossana. Sunday all of the adoptive families got a chance to meet someone related to, or familiar with their children. This was one of the biggest? hardest? heaviest? days of my life. What is the right adjective? I don't think one exists. Doing my best to keep our kids' story private, there is little more that I can say about Sunday morning.We got back to Addis early enough to visit our children. The following is what I wrote about Sunday afternoon:
I find the older kids outside. I have Melese in the sling and ask the nanny for Meaza. "MEAZA!" she yells. "MEAZI!" I yell. She points her out. She is the child farthest away. She jumps down from a concrete ledge, her one foot and one knee hit the pavement. She comes running toward me with a gigantic smile. Her black velvet blazer is flapping behind her as she catches speed. She is beautiful, full of life, and my daughter. She hugs me tight, kisses me, smiles at me. She throws her arms around her brother's neck, "Melese" she says, in her sweet, breathy whisper. She hugs him tight and kisses his face repeatedly.
