Family, Other

It sat on the dining room table for weeks, then a month, maybe two or three or seven. A form to be completed, along with all the other blank forms and bills. I shouldn't have been surprised then when the doorbell rang, the dogs began their warning, and I found a woman with a clipboard on my front stoop. The census. The questions. The family. But this family is a bit complicated.

“Race?  Caucasian?”

“Two of us,” I tell her. “My son is Asian. My ex-husband, who is living in my family room, it’s a long story, is also Asian, different heritage. Well their half Caucasian. And my mother has taken over my bedroom, because she can’t go back to her home, another long story. She’s Caucasian."

It turned out to be the census taker’s first day and she couldn't find a place for us on the form. But in this house on this day, the census taker found five people. Some of us similar to others, some of us adopted, a couple of moms, ex-spouses, a dad, two young adults, a family.