Her closed eyes are gentle sine waves. Tiny lines encircle her neck. I've observed such lines on other women. During the process of adoption, I let go of genetic ownership, a deeply ingrained notion. Part of the birth miracle is expecting a child resembling you, your spouse, your ancestors.
People joke comfortably about the traits of their children.
Yet my family was built by proximity. The clay of my family is daily life, the face lying next to me on the pillow, our growth intertwined. This bed now holds my family in slumber, but for years it held hopes about family. The emotional jar of not being pregnant month after month sent me into the high tech world of medical infertility where sex has no place, but artificial insemination and surgery are at home. Again, though, the thud, thud, thud of lost hope - six years of it.