It begins

Being new to blogging I begin with posting the begining of an original short story written by me, Jennifer Lightfoot. It may grow into a novel eventually, who knows. My hope is to create a space tell a story, relate opinions and share the goings on around me. 
Here we go...

Birth of a Chameleon - Part 1.

The letter, dated May 5^th 1990, read, ‘We were unable to locate birth records in the name of James, Sophie NMN.  Please check name spelling and birth date and re-apply for a certified copy of your birth certificate.  If you believe a mistake has been made please contact the State of Ohio Vital Statistics Office…’

This was my third attempt to get a birth certificate from the only state I knew of as home other than Texas.  Father had been dead for two years now.  The state guardianship office stated that I needed this document to be declared an emancipated minor at the age of seventeen.  They claimed that the documents I supplied, the ones my father had filed away, were fakes.  I had no one.  No known aunts, uncles and the only grandmother I had ever known was, as far as I knew, long dead too.  I didn’t even know her name. All I knew was BigMama. Was she my mother’s mother? Was she my father’s mother? He never elaborated, just saying that she is gone now.  He didn’t leave an address book, old letters, family photos or anything of any help among his things.

To say that I was frustrated is truly an understatement. Why was this happening? There was no one to answer my question. The State of Texas was considering fraud charges against me for possession of false documents. The State of Ohio just kept advising me to check my information and resubmit my request. The police just said that they would look into in and never call me back. There was no one to even care.

My life does not exist.  I am literally a nobody.  These thoughts pushed through my mind as I stood in line at the Office of Vital Records. My hope was to find answers and direction.  There were people were here from everywhere and for varied reasons. Marriage licenses, Divorce records, birth certificates, death certificates.  There were happy people, impatient people and grieving people.

A family stood in line ahead of me, all of them wearing the same stunned, blank look on their faces.  There was a girl of about ten, a mom, a dad possibly and maybe an uncle with them.  They talked of funeral plans and a memorial at the high school.  “This just doesn’t feel real to me.”  The mother was saying.  Dad wrapped his arm around her shoulders and wiped a tear from his own face.  The little girl joined the embrace, leaning her head against her father arm.

They stepped up to the counter as their turn came up.  “We need a death certificate.”  I heard the father say flatly as he handed the clerk a short blue form.  The little grey lady behind the counter applied a sympathetic facade to her demeanor.
“I need a name and date of birth, please.”  She requested quietly.
“Celia Marie Robinson,” he recited.  “She was born on August 31^st, 1974.”  His voice sounded far away, like he was there, witnessing his child’s birth all over again.”  He sniffled.  Mom wept. Daughter buried her head in mom’s bosom.

I stood watching them, and missed my own turn in line.  At that moment I wanted to be Celia Marie Robinson, dead or alive.  She had someone who loved her in life and mourned her death.  Celia had someone to remember her someone to care.  Sophie James was alone.  I turned and walked away from the line feeling more alone than I had ever felt in my life.  More alone than the day my Dad died.  More alone than the day I received his ashes.