I was adopted two weeks after my birthday, on this date, oh so many years ago. Here I am, in the middle, oblivious to the two happy people who'd come to get me. If not in town, I always called home on this day; as I became older, the date seemed more important than my natal birthday.
This is my second year without them, my father having died in 2009 and my mother in 2011. Last night I dreamed we (my family of childhood) were traveling by car and picking up some things along the way. At one place we stopped I found loads of keepsakes: old photographs, school yearbooks, letters, drawings, etc., but there was only so much space in the car and only so much time to go through them, which was making me increasingly anxious and upset. That's when I woke and realized the dream was close to reality, as one of my brothers-in-law threw out boxes of who knows what and a great chunk of what was saved was destroyed in a fire.
I can hardly explain how fortunate I was to be adopted by these two people, who were consistently loving, proud, and supportive of me and my endeavors. I think it was the best thing that ever happened to me.