When I was about 13 I used to stare at this picture. I treasured it. I hung it on my bulletin board and dreamt about what kind of life this man had and if he had any children. My mind was full of questions and of course not knowing the facts gave my imaginative mind room for creating grand illusions. Maybe he was famous in some way? Maybe he came from a really neat family? Would I ever get to meet him? What would I say? I look back and remember how my parents supported my curiosities and in fact helped me connect with him. That must have been very difficult because they had as many questions as I did. I would later learn they felt very secure and knew there were just some things I had to discover for myself. I finally was able to meet this man when I was 16. My biological father. We met outside a restaurant. My mom let me drive the mile from our house alone and I don't even think I had my license yet. We got out of our cars and stared at each other. He walked forward and hugged me and said he had been waiting for this moment since 1964 when he learned I had been adopted. I thought he was nice looking for an old guy (when you're 16, anyone over 30 is old!) and he was dressed very business-like. He said he had a gift for me and pulled it out of the trunk of his car. It was a beautifully framed picture and I treasured it because it was something tangible I could hold and it was a part of every question I ever had. As the years went by we stayed in touch and he floated in and out of my life, often while he was intoxicated. I began to think of him as a vagabond of sorts and to this day I think he may have stolen that picture from a Jack-In-The-Box or somewhere where they displayed local landmarks. He did have other children, three daughters total, including me. He died last April, but in the months before he died there was a desperate urgency to spend time with me and so I would pick him up and take him for a country drive. We went to the movies once and we always ended our visits with a quick stop at the A&W to get a rootbeer float or a milkshake. This past week the caregiver he had called me and said she had a box of pictures for me and she thought one might be of me when I was a baby. I thought about how ironic that was and felt the need to dig this picture out. Once I pick them up, they should probably all go together. It's funny how so much can depend on one little picture when you are 13.
