I’m missing.

Days of driving brought me to a bed, but not just any bed. This particular bed is in my aunt’s house and, at a glance, took me instantly back to childhood.

It transported me to when I was sick and needed to stay home from school – home in this case being my grandparents’ house. My grandmother arranged a supply of saltine crackers, 7Up in my favorite plastic cup with a straw and a bell on the bedside table.

She spread VapoRub over my chest, placed a cool washcloth on my forehead and gently smoothed my hair back off my face. She tucked me in securely under the ivory crocheted bedspread and told me to ring the bell loudly if I needed anything.

The very same bedspread is now in my aunt’s guest room. I resisted the urge to curl up beneath its perfectly preserved squares of snowballs and diagonals, to retreat into the love I felt from my grandmother’s care, the nostalgia of a simpler time when she was within walking distance of my elementary school, with the basement stairs a perfect place for Slinky races, the backyard a wonder of snapdragons and iris, and the playroom a sanctuary with its volumes of Grimm Fairy Tales and Hans Christian Anderson.

Instead, I sat on the nubby texture of the coverlet, surrounded by the history of those grandparents, their parents and grandparents. Next to me, a family Bible with the careful cursive script capturing the births, marriages and deaths of generations, its spine disintegrating from even the gentlest touch. A thick volume of US History published in 1875. On the floor at my side, the hand-carved cradle I was inheriting, continuing the chain of women who have passed it from mother to daughter, and now aunt to niece. I do not know yet if my daughters will become mothers, but I’m committed to the care and ongoing legacy of this matrilineal (through the female line) journey through time and space.

Sitting in the midst of this family history, I open a clasped manila envelope containing a book about my great-great grandfather from 1938, photographs and a “descendency chart.” The chart begins in 1888 with Elmer Glen and Susie Anna, their nine children (including my grandfather). Under each child’s name, it shows their spouses and children (including my father, aunts and uncle). Under each grandchild’s name, it includes their respective spouses and children (my cousins). It’s quite a group.

My three step-mothers are listed - even the one who lasted less than a year. My father’s first wife, my mother, is not listed. My brother is not listed.

I am not listed.

The tears start. There is no pause for logic or rational thought. The emotions are fully in charge, and they choose the shape of a waterfall.

I tap into a deep wound. In that moment, I feel at my core I have always been and still am now completely and utterly…

Alone.

I didn’t know that feeling was there. I wonder how often and how much I distract myself from its presence.

As my brain starts to catch up with my body, I wonder who created this list, why would we have been left off. I have no worries that I was secretly adopted or born from a different father. This was either an intentional omission or an accidental oversight.

I remember that I like being alone. I often choose it. I moved to Oregon alone, driven by topophilia (simply, love of place), without friends or family in the area. I write best when I’m alone. I luxuriate in the quiet of my empty nest. I forget to invite people to join me for a show or event. That person in the restaurant or the movies by themself? That’s me. And I’m happy. I am very good company.

I pull myself together and continue reviewing the documents.

My aunt comes in to check on my progress. I tell her about the chart. She assures me I’m on there, until she looks and realizes I’m not. My tears begin again. She comforts me, frustrated that she doesn’t know whose mistake led us here.

I’m fine. We’re fine. It’s fine.

I am a part of this family. This cradle is still going home with me. She is meant to be with me for a time, until she finds her home in the next generation.

I drive from Ohio to Oregon, stopping in Iowa on the way, my SUV loaded to absolute capacity with ancient photo albums, books published in 1875, pieces of my grandmother’s wedding china from 1941, a knitting basket, tins with sewing notions. All from a grandmother who even after death reminds me I’m actually not alone. Her proxy, now my aunt, continues the connection. She sends her love home with me in jars – her homemade spaghetti sauce, salsa and pesto, all fresh from her garden.

Once I am home and place the cradle in my living room to hold quilts and blankets (and occasionally a happy gray cat), I sign up for ancestry.com. I add my parents and my grandparents. I find other relatives who have done the same, and I add links to their charts. In some places, my family tree stretches back six or seven generations. Other branches wait their turn for the research needed to connect us.

I find Quakers, both a Union soldier and a Confederate soldier from the Civil War, a fifer and a militia-man from the Revolutionary War, and a Cherokee chief. My heart drops as I find a slaveowner, hoping it’s not the right relation and am disappointed when he is.

I put myself back into the story.

This family tree survives separation. It survives life and death and heartbreak and reunions. It outlasts shame. It persists despite cross-country moves, losing touch over time and an incomplete “descendency chart” from a 1995 dot-matrix printer.

And because I’m very, very lucky, branches of my family tree show up in real life in the form of hugs I didn’t know I needed, stories about relatives I’ve never met and freshly made ketchup from an Ohio garden.

The tree is alive. It has a story to tell. I just need the perseverance, forgiveness and strength to find it.

From the garden:

During my travels, I took the mild weather with me. I rejoiced in it. I counted my blessings at my good fortune. I returned home to realize the late August heat and dryness lingered in Oregon during my lengthy absence, frying the delicate pea shoots, withering the herbs and even decimating the prolific cucumber vine. While my pet sitter watered as requested, it just wasn’t enough. I mourned the loss of the fall harvest, knowing I could easily replace the crop with a trip to the grocery store. Yet I was disappointed. Honestly it was more than that, but I don’t want to be dramatic and say heartbroken, even if I was.

As I write, I overlook the front yard where the u-shaped arrangement of raised beds holds this garden. Day after day of disapproving looks from neighbors walking by still didn’t motivate me to clean it up. It took weeks for me to clear the dried vines and dead leaves, to admit an early end to the oregano, the loss of the peas and the disappointment of the cucumbers. I still haven’t figured out what to do with the tomato plant and the romaine shoots that survived although they are far from any harvest production this year.

If I have learned a lesson (I haven’t), I suppose I should begrudgingly admit I was told to start small. (I didn’t.) I don’t know what I’ll do next spring besides not plant carrots or squash. I don’t really like them and growing them myself will not change that. (So I did learn something.) I might scale back (but probably not). I better figure out an irrigation and shading system that can withstand the fierce August heat and sun.

For now, I’ll thank the garden for the enjoyment it brought me, for the tiny strawberries with the huge flavor, for the herbs and for the realization that I can fail at growing vegetables and still be just fine.

As they say in writer’s class, every failure is content.