Wishes in the Night

On the eve of Hanna’s birthday, we slip out into the cold night. A few stars sparkle in the sky. Sheets and blankets thrown over the bushes loom like misshapen ghosts in the shadows. The dog prances excitedly along, picking up on the energy, with no idea what we are doing.

Hanna, Kathryn and I sit in a circle on the front sidewalk, the dog nosing around at our knees. Hanna, not liking the icy cement, curls on my lap. I light the candle and set it in the middle of us. We are here to send wishes to Hanna’s birthmother.

Most every year since Hanna came home from China, on the eve of her birthday, I have done this sort of ritual. After the girls go to bed, I pour a glass of wine, sit and write and cry and thank this woman I do not know. Then, I light a candle on the sidewalk and burn the letter, imagining in some illogical way the ashes drift up on the night wind and my words somehow find her on the other side of the sky.

Tonight in the kitchen, before we went outside, I knelt and explained to Hanna what we were going to do. “You know we have talked about your birthmother, right?” Hanna nodded, her ponytails swinging. “Well, tonight, she’s probably somewhere in China, we don’t know where, but we like to thank her around your birthday.” Hanna bounced on her toes as I told her more about the ritual and how this year she could do it, too. “Yes!” Hanna said. And there was great hustle and bustle rushing for the door.

Now, out on the sidewalk, the wind blows our hair, we snuggle closer. Kathryn reads a short, lovely note about how much she loves her sister, then feeds it to the flickering candle flame.

Hanna goes next. “What wishes you do want to send across the sky?” I ask her.

Hanna wriggles up straight, “I want to thank my Chinese Mommy for making me,” she says in her chirpy voice, “and for giving me to you because I love…” she pauses then blurts, “I love to speak English.”

We all giggle. I hug and kiss her. Quietly, I wonder what she might have been about to say, if she felt a pull of loyalty in what—and who—she loves.

Then it’s my turn. This year I speak instead of write. “Thank you for making Hanna just the way you did,” I say, giving Hanna a squeeze. “Wherever you are tonight, know we are here thinking of you. We are so grateful. Hanna’s fine. Thank you.”

I probably say this more or less, I can’t remember exactly. But gratitude and love, that’s the gist of it, for each of us.

We kiss our hands and blow wishes into the night.