The door opened and a woman led in
a beautiful child. She had fine brown hair cut short, olive skin, chubby
cheeks, dark eyes, and a wary expression on her face. This was Elena.
I carefully examined my feelings. I
expected a rush of emotion, a surge of love for my prospective daughter, but I
felt nothing in particular. I put her on my lap. She was too frightened to
speak. So the woman handed her the paper and crayons I had brought and asked
her to draw a picture. She selected a yellow crayon and carefully drew a
circle. She drew long lines emanating from the circle in all directions: a sun.
I loved this about her: that she would draw a bright and hopeful picture in a
moment of fear. I asked myself, could I love this child? The answer was a
resounding yes.
Elena's mother had been in prison
for six months on drug charges. In that time, she had not contacted her child
or inquired after her. Elena was legally abandoned and was in need of parents.
When we returned home to America to
await our court date for adoption, as per Russian regulation, the image of that
yellow sun stayed in my mind. For each of my six biological babies, I had made
a sweater. I found a pattern with crocheted flowers on the front and a matching
hat. I bought yarn and began to crochet a little blue sweater to fit Elena’s
measurements. When I was done, I appliquéd the flower motifs and then, in honor
of her drawing, I added a yellow sun. As I worked, my love for my faraway child
grew.
Then we got the crushing news: When
Elena's mother heard that an American couple was adopting her child, she
immediately wrote to Elena from prison.
She promised to be a good mother. She wanted to get out of jail, clean
up her life, and claim her child.
We began a year-and-a-half wait,
hoping something would change, hoping it would work out. And it did, but not for us. It worked out for Elena and her mother.
We started over, with a new home
study, new documentation, a new adoption agent, and a second mortgage on our
home.
Nearly two years after our first
trip, we were again in Russia, sitting in a greeting room in another orphanage,
this time in Afipsky village, waiting for a door to open and change our lives. A
four-year-old girl entered, holding her teacher’s hand. She had fine brown hair
cut short, olive skin, chubby cheeks, dark eyes, and a sweet smile. She presented
herself as if she expected to be adored, as if she knew we would be her
parents. This was Marisha. I did not have to examine my feelings; I loved this
child madly.
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She climbed on my lap. Our agent
pulled out a little spiral-bound notebook and handed her some crayons. She
chose yellow. She drew a circle. She added long lines, emanating in all directions.
It was another sun, another sign of hope from an abandoned child.
As we rode off into the dark night,
our family now complete, Marisha asked us questions, translated by our agent:
“What do you have in America? Do you have doors and windows? Do you have
crayons and scissors and Scotch tape? Do you have inside and outside?” Every
question delighted us. Every answer
pleased her. In her make-shift bed on the hotel couch that night, she sang
herself to sleep.
(Written for my English 2010 class assignment at Utah State University. I got an A.)
