Who Am I?
Most people grow up knowing they got their eyes from Grandma, or their smile from Dad. Maybe you play with your hair just like your sister, or have the same beautiful hands as your mother. I can only daydream about the origins of such qualities. I would love to know who had the same unruly mass of hair and bouncy, head-bobbing walk. I long to see my face in the sepia-toned photographs in dusty family albums. I know the only faces that will show reflections of me, will be those of my future children. Perhaps then I will see echoes of me....in a laugh, even in a stubborn streak or deeply-lined hands. I am not unhappy to be without knowledge of my beginnings, just wistful. Not knowing has made me who I am today. One of the keys to my identity has always been that I am adopted. I embrace the mystery of who and where I came from. There have been periods of longing and discontent...but only when asked, "what are you?" Regardless of the callousness of the question, I did want to kno...