Window #10

Dear Window #10,

Every time I walk through the Consular doors I look for you above the sea of brown faces. If you are open I walk as quickly as possible past the cantankerous security guard, careful to keep my head down, and make a solid line to your window. Out of all the many windows at the Embassy, your window is my favorite.

You greet me with a smile and when you speak my English develops a crush on your English. There is no straining to understand your words, no sifting through a thick Swahili accent. Your meaning is evident and unforced. I want to stand there all day, basking in the ring of your words, listening to the sound of clear, crystal comprehension. But alas, I cannot stand there all day and you tell me to wait, you once again disappear into the folds of the embassy searching high and low for any sign of Adam Walsh.

I sit and know I look like a little pink person in this room. Maybe that is why it doesn't take the security guard long to spot me. I know she is agitated before I even look up. She wants me to wait in line. She wants to tell me when and to whom I must speak. But she doesn't understand, window #10, that I have to get your window. Not Window 8, or 4 or 3. She doesn't understand that hope comes from your window, that the last piece of the puzzle will pass through your glass and I will be free.

She clears her throat and I force my eyes up to meet hers. "Can I help you?" she asks holding onto the I, the emphasis straining to reach the next word. "Um, no thanks!" I smile as sweet as can be but she doesn't seem to notice the kind of grin that only $4000 of orthodontic work can produce. She digs both thumbs down behind her belt, juts her hip out and I recognize the signal because I've seen it before. I know that she is about to make me move and start over in the line that, like most things in Kenya, will last the better part of the day. So I chime in before she has a chance to clear her throat, "I actually have already been helped. Window #10 is cool with me being here. He said I could wait. But thanks!" She just stares at me a minute, brown eyes locking on blue and I have to bite my lip so that I won't laugh because it always feels like I am in a ring with Mike Tyson and for whatever reason that strikes me as funny, she slapping her gloves together and grunting into the air. Eventually she steps back, because what can she do, what power can she wield against window #10?

Today was not really different than any of the other days. But window #10, tomorrow I will find you once again. I will stand in front of your glass like a plaintiff standing before an English speaking judge. I will hold my breath as you tap, tap, tap on your computer. I will wait. And maybe tomorrow, for the first time, your eyes will spark. You will tell me that Adam Walsh has found no beef with me and I am clear. I'll hand you the passport and you will paste that $400 piece of paper, the one that this entire adoption has been working toward, onto the empty page. I will want to kiss you, Window 10, but the glass will restrain me, so instead I will thank you and remind you that to some people a Visa is worth everything.

Sincerely,
Hanna Salmans

P.S. I know your name is Brad because your answering machine said so. So much for National Security.