Sometimes I forget...

Sometimes I forget all this child has had to endure. Sometimes I forget how much has been taken from her. I forget about the scars inside her--her heart that is at least a little bit broken, and always will be. Most of the time I see a spunky, sassy, mischievous, loving, kissy toddler. But sometimes--like today--I see the sadness that will always lie deep inside.

It's bitterly cold here. Lowest temperatures in years. Kendi's face is starting to look like a dried up prune. The moisture is getting sucked out of it because of the dryness, and the cold winds are chapping her cheeks. I've been putting regular lotion on her face religiously but it's just not working. So today I got out the precious jar of shea butter I brought home from Ghana about a year ago.

I don't use our Ghana shea butter all the time. It's for skin emergencies. It has to last! I warmed it in the microwave for half a minute, and then opened the lid. The smell. That smell. The smell of pure shea butter is not what we Americans think of as "good." We weren't raised around this smell. It's not like the smell of bread in the oven that brings back a flood of childhood memories. Except that it is. For Kendi it is. Even for ME it is, and I've only spent a tiny portion of my life in Ghana. That smell is pure Ghana. I never realized before today that the smell is around me all the time when I'm there. I just couldn't pick it out against the stronger smells (smoke, fish, onions, flowers, exhaust, pineapple, mango....).

I proceed to apply the soft and warm shea butter to Kendi's face and lips. Every time I do this with lotion she squirms and complains. But with the shea, she sat and let me rub in the goodness for several minutes, eyes closed the whole time. It was a very quiet and calm few moments. Then, I gave her a bit in her hand. And just as she did in Ghana while at Eban House, she took that bit of shea and spread it on her own body. Face, elbows, knees, hands, and finally the hair. As she completed her ritual, with eyes open but not seeing, I knew she wasn't really with me. She was back home. She was in Ghana.

Possibly she thought, "Maybe if I just sit here with my eyes closed long enough, when I open my eyes I will be back home. Maybe it will be warm and wet, rather than cold and dry. Maybe I'll hear the soothing sounds of my tribal language, rather than the choppy language I hear in this place. Maybe there will be fufu rather than potatoes, and fish rather than beef. Maybe?"

Then my sweet baby had to open her eyes and see my face, and our kitchen, and be flooded with all of the smells and sights of her new home. How my heart BREAKS for her tonight.

Anita