easy

I wrote this poem after meeting my cousin, (let's call her Mary) whom many years ago, my sister and I babysat many times, back when we did not know she was our cousin, once removed. A little over twenty years ago, Mary found her biological mother, my first cousin, who acknowledged her but blocked Mary's contact with her children (Mary's half-sisters and half-brothers) and the rest of the family. Mary finally discovered where I live, but was afraid to contact me until she saw my picture in a magazine and decided to call. Mary lives about an hour and a half away. The story is more convoluted that this, but in deference to her mother's wishes I am blurring things. You may not sympathize with her mother's obstinacy, but it is rooted in the attitudes of the 1940s, when marriage out of wedlock was serious business that made Mary one of the "Butterbox Babies". That scandal has been the subject of at least one book.

Mary has children who know her story, as does my branch of the family, now. She is a witty, accomplished woman with sons and daughters, all of whom are married and have their own children. But she has this ache to know her mother's family. I am so pleased to be a chink in the wall to her family. Welcome home, Mary.