Kelsey
My Kelsey.
My giggling girl.
My happy puppet.
My images of Kelsey
–
Smiling through the
front window at her foster home.
They say it will
take time for her to warm up to us
So shy is she.
We are strangers.
She makes liars of
them.
She runs to us with
splayed arms.
Weeks later, her
body betrays her
It seizes.
Fifty times an hour.
How can her body
fight so hard against her?
Now I know.
Angelman Syndrome.
Missing piece of
a chromosome.
Nineteen.
That’s her
IQ.
She will never talk,
never understand, never be out of diapers.
Still, she is our
daughter and we love her.
We fight legal battles
for her.
Our story is public.
Television. Magazines. Newspapers.
In a legal metaphor,
I place hands squarely on hips, stern look on my face. I demand.
Papers are finally
signed. Kelsey is truly ours.
Years pass. Screaming.
Biting. Pinching. Giggling. Hitting.
We cannot do this.
I feel a brick in
my gut every time I open her door.
Every time she gets
off the school bus.
We find another home
for her.
Two hour drive.
All the way, my soul
is draining out the soles of my feet.
I am a terrible mother.
What kind of mother does this?
I am there five minutes.
Gratitude chases
guilt from me.
She does not know
me. She does not care.
She is my daughter.
And I admit what
no mother can bring herself to say
Without heartbreak.
I cannot handle my
daughter. I cannot raise my child.
It is all right.
May 3, 2003
