F. Cade Swanson
find anyone out east to care for him, so they expanded their search to western Washington and found us. They connected us to his aunt, who was anxious for him to go. So we drove east on I-90, arriving early to a town where we had never been. There would be no social workers. No court appointed special advocates. Just Noah, his aunt, a friend of hers, and us. We were nervous. And eager. And anxious. And the weather was hot. We weren’t naive like we were with our first child, or broken like we became with our second child. Not this time. This time we were awake. Painfully awake. Fully conscious and fully aware of everything we didn’t know. We drive in silence, and I start imagining all of the things waiting for us. Who will this child be? What will he need? Will we be able to do this again? I’m making lists in my head of the friends and counselors and connections we might need. Let go, I tell myself. It’ll be okay. You’ve done this before. You know what to do. I sit up tall in the passenger seat of our black truck, grab at the handle on the dash board but not too hard, and try to relax. We see a Starbucks. Something familiar. Drive-thru? No, we have time to go in. Brown wooden chairs greet us. Green straws. The smell of espresso grounds me, resituates me back in my body. I order an iced Americano, and feel the cool bitter taste against the back of my teeth. Adam orders a green tea, because we were in shape back
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