Day 105

14 Apr

After writing out Lazarus’ birth story yesterday and chatting with a couple different people about it today, I started to think about how my kids will know exactly where they came from and when and who was involved and everyone knew when they arrived. It made me realize how most people take for granted knowing their birth story or who was involved in their making.

It is truly strange that, at one point, my cousins knew more about where I came from than I did. That what was a very hazy idea to me could be so concrete to others who weren’t at all involved. It’s sad, really. And weird. And kind of painful. Or it was at some point, anyway.

Like I know what city I was born in, and I could tell you if you asked. But I don’t know the name of the hospital. And no one in my family was there or came to visit. At least not that I know of. Isn’t this something you usually know? I mean, the name of the hospital you were born in? Maybe I’m just imagining things… and I could probably just look at my birth certificate (which is just a photocopy, BTW. An official one, but still.).

I don’t know. I’m probably not expressing what I really intended to. It just struck me at some point today again that there’s this haziness to my origins, and I hate it. I think it’s part of why it was so easy to get married and change my name and start my own family; I guess I didn’t feel like I had much of a name of my own to hold onto– nothing solid, only a shifting idea of something.

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