The one that got away

I should not be writing this, but I am.

I spent most of the yesterday morning writing up some research. I'd been digging into a few of my Confederate Yankee ancestors, trying to understand, so I guess the exercise got me thinking.

Somewhere in the world, if he still lives, I have a first cousin I have never met.  He was born, I think, about 1967, give or take. He was born out of wedlock and adopted out of the family at birth.

What would the neighbors say?

Last night I dreamed that one of my Facebook friends across the state is my lost cousin.

I saw a picture of my friend from his youth the other day.  He was a lanky, deeply tanned young man.

My grandfather on the side of the family in question was also a tall, thin, dark fellow in his youth.

So were my uncles, and other cousins I knew.

So was I.

It must have made me wonder, deep down below the line between consciousness and dream, when I saw that skinny young man with a mullet for days, staring at me from a pixel driven screen.

When my mother told me that deep dark family secret, many years gone now, she instructed me to never speak of it again.

Her parents had been terrified of what the neighbors would think of them, their daughter, her bastard child?

They forced her to give him away.

She never had another child.

I should not have written this.

Someone had to do it.

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