Orphan Train

There are those days where mentally and emotionally, I am curled up in a fetal ball*. There is no one thing that has precipitated this condition, rather a plethora of niggling, tiny stressors. Well OK – maybe a few of those stressors are rather large but I am usually able to keep those suckers at bay. But from time to time they say “Uh, no! We are important. We need to be acknowledged. Felt. We need some eyeball to eyeball time.” So I start to curl into that little ball and contemplate. Feel. Acknowledge. Pay those stressors – big and small – some respect.

The Boy – the Beau – the Ballcap – calls himself an orphan these days. 20 years ago his dad passed away. This fall, his mother too. And although the McGifford clan had 10 children and he has many cousins, he is not close to any of them. He has an adversarial relationship with his sister, his only sibling. The only moment they’ve ever come together and agreed on anything was outside the hospice room in which their mother was breathing her last breaths. It was there they acknowledged how lucky they were – they had the best mom – and it was the first time B3 had ever hugged his sister. His mother passed away that night and he whispered to me. “I’m an orphan now.”

I suppose I agreed. He was left without a mother and father at the ripe young age of 57. But he had such a legacy to look back on. Although he says he and his dad butted heads often (which I can totally see because even though I never met his dad, I have a feeling B3 is an exact carbon copy) he speaks so fondly and respectfully of him. He was (and is) devoted to his mom. Her things are everywhere in his home. I was cutting strawberries with a paring knife the other night. “You remind me of my mom. She cut her strawberries and held a paring knife just like that.”

He clearly misses them both – and it is indeed bittersweet for him – but the legacy he is left with is so lush and full. Technically, I guess, he is an orphan.

I picked up a book a few years back. “Orphan Train” by Christina Baker Kline. It is fictional but based on a real time in history where orphaned children were put on trains to family's, where hopefully they would find a life where they were cared for and loved. Just as often they found themselves used as free labour either on a farm or taking care of a household. I’m not sure why I picked up this book. I suppose it was the little girl on the cover that I was drawn to. Wistfully, yet apprehensively looking out the window at the passing landscape as she hurtled to an unknown future. What I didn’t expect was to find myself relating to this story. Seeing things I felt and thought and did reflected back to me in black and white. The second time I read it I had to finally concede that the reason I related to so many things in her story was because I had been an orphan myself.

“A child whose parents are both dead or who has been abandoned by his or her parents, especially a child not adopted by another family”.  - Encarta Dictionary. 

That definition brooks no subtle nuances with respect to ones orphan-hood.

Yes, my maternal grandparents took me in, but they never became my legal guardians. Ever. 

Yes, my best friends parents mentored me, but at the end of the day I went on my way and they went theirs. 

So – when I get the contemplative feelings washing over me, I mentally look behind me and see all those empty chairs. The ones that were supposed to be filled by family. And I look ahead of me and those same chairs will likely remain vacant. And the loneliness hits me right in my center. Hence the reason for the emotional fetal position. I know you aren’t supposed to look back. Or even look forward. You’re supposed to savour the present. But past and future make me feel a little uncertain with who occupies those chairs today. Maybe I should remove all chairs. But then, how can people come and sit and stay awhile?

I will unfurl myself in a couple days. I will sternly tell myself “it is what it is Annette” and I will straighten my spine, lift my head, put on my battle fatigues and move forward. Always move forward. And I’ll savour the moments B3 takes my hand and squeezes. I’ll bask in the company of friends as we share a meal and a few laughs. I’ll mentally sift through my rich legacy of people who lifted me high. And it will be good. But it’s good only because I’ve let the orphan have some time to be acknowledged and respected.

*Disclaimer: From time to time I feel like I need to qualify or explain what I write. I never think my life is better or worse than anyone else’s (well – I guess I used to think very often that my life was WAY better than others. I grew up being reminded often of all the starving children in Africa – and that wasn’t me so I always felt I had a good life by comparison). But my life has been different and I guess it leaves me with a certain perspective. Then again, everyone has their own unique life and they have their own angst and troubles. I know one thing from speaking with many others over the course of my lifetime – no one gets through this life unscathed. But, just like B3, we all can feel like orphans from time to time. Or we all have those moments of sadness and heaviness. It’s SO tempting to never write or speak about those moments or seasons. Keep it funny. Leave people laughing. Uplift. Spread the sunshine, Sunshine. But I think we do a disservice to each other when we don’t allow (a safe) space to share the hard stuff with each other. So – I write about my little fetal ball moments – never to garner any sympathy or “poor you” sentiments. Never. I share them to open the door to others to let them know, the bumps and bruises and scars that life can inflict on us are not shameful. We all have war wounds. Don’t be afraid to show them. And don’t deny them the respect they deserve. Your story matters. And the last page has yet to be written.

Photo Credit:
Young Girl Copyright by Yolanda de Kort;
Train door Copyright by Marcus Appelt.
Arcangel Images