Sincerely Yours

I watched as you went from room to room looking for your reading glasses when there it was, perched right there ever so snugly on the top of your head, nestled among the golden streaks of highlights of your auburn hair. I wanted to call out to you, to tell you just where exactly you could find them, but I couldn’t. I wanted to hold your hand, smooth back the few strands of hair that have come loose from your bun and tell you to relax, but I couldn’t either. I could only crouch here, hidden behind your white picket fence, smell your hydrangea from the bush in your garden that was in full bloom, and look at you from afar.

You curse as the sixth drawer that you pull open, too, sees no square-rimmed, gold-framed pair of spectacles. You really need them; how can you fill out that form you have on your coffee table when you can’t even read the words? And knowing you, the consent – or lack thereof – that you would scrawl onto that sheet of paper is of utmost importance. Just like the many other petition forms and appeal letters that sit in stacks on your office desk. Just like that one particular form you signed so many years ago that... Never mind. The thought was too harsh, too painful and sad, for me to even think of.

I watched as the yellow school bus rolled into your driveway and the young boy about sixteen years of age got off it. Even at first glimpse, I could tell he couldn’t have been younger than me any more than two years. He trudged up the driveway lazily and I watched as he let himself in to the house. You look up from the chest of drawers you had been searching through at the sound of his voice, and went out to the front to embrace him in a hug. I watched as he shrugged you off in indifference and climbed the staircase to his room.

I watched as you sank into the nearest couch in resignation. The slightest sign of exhaustion crept over your features to reside in between your eyebrows. You took one look at the many folders and documents splayed across your coffee table and sighed. The slump of your shoulders pained me, and I wanted so badly to collect you into my arms and hold you till your worries melted away. You stretch and brush the loose hair off your forehead. That was when you finally located your glasses and you laugh mirthlessly at your own folly. At least you can now finally get to work.

I watched as you straightened up to position yourself closer to the coffee table and the documents upon it. You sat with your back straight and head slightly tilted forward with the grace of a ballerina. You went through the papers with no haste, and I marvelled at how temperate your hands were with the documents as, one by one, you went through them. Your fingers were long and slim; your hands were those of a musician, no doubt. I repositioned myself to lean on my other leg as I adjusted the guitar strapped onto my back. I cringed when the neck of my guitar accidentally caused a ruffle in bush nearby and made you look up for a while to stare out of the window in my direction. I shrank further back into the shadows.

After a while, you go back to your work. I watched as you finish reading the sheet of paper you held in your hand, put it down onto the table and picked up the pen. I watched as you touched the nib of the pen to the paper and penned in your signature. A big loop of a C first, over which you write your joined H-R-Y-S-T-I-N, with a long tail which extends far to the bottom for the Y. You finish by underlining it bold and straight, always sure, never unwavering.

You always do your signatures like that. No-nonsense and to the point. No hesitation. No uncertainty. Just like how you signed those papers so many years ago; those adoption papers that gave up all the rights you had over me as a mother.

Just like how you signed those papers, exactly eighteen years ago today.