They Were Mine

I've always known them--Philip and Patrick and Kristi. And that was how they cemented into my mind--Philip and Patrick and Kristi--like they were one entity. And to me, I suppose they were one, these three children that had been made to move on, move away from us, and grow up someplace else.

But, I've always known them. There were photos of them in my baby albums. One of Patrick and me lying on our bellies, looking into each other's eyes, both sucking our thumbs. One of Philip leaning against Mom's shoulder as she held me and looked awkwardly into the camera. The four of us, just hanging around, being a family.

There was always the one photo, an 8X10 of Philip and Patrick and Kristi, which stayed in a "gold" frame in the extra blue bedroom of our house before Mom remarried. I would sneak into the room, close the door silently behind me, find the frame, and stare into their shining eyes. Now where are you? I would ask. Do you know that Mom still misses you, still tells me about you?

Philip wondered if they would have to move away once the new baby (me) came. I'll never get over that. I didn't want him to leave; I would have given anything for them to stay.

Patrick asked if he could drink milk from Mommy, when he turned back into a baby. He wasn't wild about sharing his blanket with me.

Kristi liked to hold me and rock me. I was like her baby doll.

Sometimes I would play outside by myself, in the chain-linked safety of our backyard, and in my mind we'd all play together. Kristi and I would hide from the boys. We'd play soccer, Philip joining my team because Patrick and Kristi were like the twins. They always wanted to be together. At least, in my dream family world they did. We'd climb the magnolia tree in the backyard and carve our initials into its bark. Well, Philip would carve mine. But I never knew, Philip Raymond, Patrick Ryan, Mary Kristine... what were their last names now?

For a while I had bunk beds, and that really lent itself well to pretending that my older sister was there. We'd whisper to each other and hope Mom wouldn't hear. We were supposed to be sleeping; but sisters shared secrets, sisters had a lot to talk about.

I've always known them. I've always missed them. Mom never had any more kids, and I never got to grow up with the siblings I'd been given. I had to imagine them, wonder about them, pray for them. Having a sibling was what I grew up wanting more than anything. Mom's many miscarriages made the desire become more of an obsession, until I got old enough that siblings were no longer what I craved, but a baby of my own.

I've always known them. In my memories, there is a picture. Their faces are looking at me, and I am in a stroller. The yellow canopy is above my head, and they have bent in to smile and sing to me. Sun flickers back forth between their bobbing heads and through their wispy hair. They love me. I am smiling and trying to grab at them. We're happy. I'm sure it's some fantasy memory I've created. Who has memories from infancy? But I've always held it fast, convinced myself that yes, I do have a piece of them which I could carry with me these forty years. It did happen. We were a family. They were mine. I've always known them.