The Welcoming Party
On the train from Madrid to Cadiz, we stopped at Jerez de la Frontera. The station is covered in blue and white porcelain tiles and had the feeling of almost having arrived at the coast as the light was changing and the air was sweeter. A crowd was standing on the platform, dressed to the nines, holding balloons and signs and each person wearing an ear to ear grin. We sat in our seats curiously looking at them from the window. Tin was on my lap.
A woman, very Spanish looking, got down from the train holding an Asian toddler tightly in her arms and the crowd erupted in tears and screams and crowded around her, old women kissing the tops of the child’s head, little kids kissing his feet.
An adoption welcoming party.
Both Tatjana and I had tears in our eyes. We asked Tin if he remembered when we adopted him and he came home to a welcoming party – it was the eighth night of Hanukkah and we pulled out all of the menorahs and friends came to kiss the top of his head and his tiny feet.
“Yes,” he said, but aren’t memories at best the stories we have been told or tell ourselves?
