I am adopted.

Part of my tree trunk...  I don't ever remember not knowing that I was adopted.  My parents, George and Mary, always shared stories with Michael, my big brother, and me about how we came to be members of our family.  My father was a talented weaver of tales.  He spun a story for me explaining that I had been found lying in one of many baby cribs in that place where parents go to adopt children.  As he and Mary carefully glanced over each child, he noted, in detail, just how one may have had a nose a bit too large, or not quite the right colored hair,  or not enough dimples, or any number of other reasons that those babies were just not quite right for he and his wife.  He shared with me this delightful story of how I had just everything right, from the blue of my eyes to the curl on top of my head.  He then snuck in the secret of how my mother saved me from the fate of being named Petunia Rose...   I ALWAYS felt wanted and loved, as every child deserves to feel.

That wonderful human being of a man transitioned in 1980.  This little girl's loss of her daddy still stings to this day although it´s entirely possible George still comes around occasionally — in angelic form.  And Mary is still my amazing mother, strong, steadfast, loving, creative and full of grace.