Photo Albums of a Lost Girl

I show them to my friends.

They coo and cry "OMG so cute!"

Well, duh.  I'm a baby.

These are my pictures.

There I am, nestled in Mom's arm,

Bundled in a new blue and white polka-dot onesie.

Hair freshly trimmed,

Severing the uniform orphanage style

From my first 19 months.

There I am, stateside at last.

Being wheeled through the airport

In a navy stroller with a pink Pooh balloon

Tied to the handles.  Every push is another

Foot farther from chapter one.

There I am, sprawled on Grammy's carpet,

Overwhelmed by toys, gifts, attention.

My first adventure in a kiddie pool.

Oh how refreshing!  The California sun blisters,

And the Chinese dirt clings stubbornly to my chest.

They say a picture is worth

A thousand words, but what

About the missing ones?  How many

Sentences, paragraphs, books did I lose?

The photo albums stashed

Within the recesses of my family's home

Are filled to the brim with snapshots

Of one joyful Asian child.

"But where's the rest?

Where's the ones from when

I was born?"  Awkward pause.

The silence fills the gaps

In the picture collections.

They were not lost.

I was lost. Abandoned

By my mother who made

The non-existent choice

Between illegitimacy and hope.

No, they are not lost.

They just simply aren't there.

But I am.  I am here in 2018,

And unlike those photos,

I have been found.