Without Hope

         I stood there, shivering. The rain was beginning to beat harder. Crack! Lightning struck the air. The sky was dark, the moon missing from its place. But still I walked, arms wrapped around myself, desperately searching for long-lost slivers of warmth.
         I didn't know where to go. I thought she would welcome me in. I thought she would be glad to see me. But she turned me away from her home, told me not to come back.
         The rain gives everything a fresh, springtime smell. It washes away the small memories of today, when a young girl stopped to pluck a flower, where a mother chased her son down the street. Laughter. Good memories.
         I was heartbroken. I was her flesh and blood, her family. She chose to give me away, to let me grow up not knowing where I came from. She should have been repentant. She should have greeted me with open arms. But she didn't want me.
         A car whizzes by, splashing me with mud. The driver is anxious to return to his home and family. He is naive, does not know rejection.
         I had stood by the window. It had emitted a soft glow, aand the scene seemed to be a picture. She laughed, an open, joyous sound. Her new husband played with a toddler, and she bounced a blanket-wrapped newborn. My brother and sister.
         I stopped walking for a moment. Craning my neck back, I gazed at the stars, shards of glass glittering in a navy sea. Absolutely breathtaking, better than anything in the city.
         When I saw them through the window, my heart plummeted. She didn't need me to invade her life. But I did. And I was right. She didn't need me.
         I can barely make out the woods to my right. A twig snaps; the forest creatures are waking from their winter slumber. My foot thuds against the pavement; I listen as they flee.
         Hours were spent agonizing over her. I left New York City and found my way here, blundering through taxis, trains, and buses, anything to get here, to this demure Connecticut suburb. I put my life into finding her.
         I make my way over to a little old house, with boarded-up windows and holes in the roof. Abandoned, like me. I would stay there for the night.
         I didn't care if she was only seventeen when I was born. I didn't care that she was broke. I didn't care about anything, I just wanted my mother.
         I layed down on the moss and mouse droppings. A tear traced a path down my face. My mother didn't want me. Not then, not now.
         I am alone.