Nor did I ever see his face. My mother only saw him once...
to pass an idle hour or so. Or maybe,
even less.
I have no images of him within my mind,
no photographs imbedded in my memory.
No picture of his countenance embellishes a wall,
nor garnishes a shelf, or even a desk.

Mom had already given up my two brothers
and my sister
without ever really knowing them...
or their adorable personalities.
And I, being the youngest, and the smallest,
was the last to leave home.

It was, appropriately, Father's Day when I was adopted.
I was barely six weeks old when my eyes last met with hers.
I hope she misses the patter of my little feet,
and the warmth of my tiny body all nestled up against her milk-rich bosom,
or her soft, warm tummy.
I shed many, many salty tears. I hope she shed some too...
for me.

My new Daddy picked me up that dreadful, dreary, stormy day
as the lightening flashed and the thunder crashed, as it awoke the darkened sky.
He often reminds me that it was, to him, a most beautiful day,
and that I was his Golden Pot
that lay beneath the shimmering, florescent, Easter colored rainbow.

He often played with me, but I was sometimes naughty,
and chose to play with things I found beneath his bed
or with those that sat upon the closet floor.
I especially liked the soft grey moss that lay beneath the plastic ficus tree.
Perhaps he thought it too dirty for my tiny mouth. And
every time he said "bad girl," I grabbed another mouthful,
and hid in my favorite, secret hiding place.

Some few months later, my Dad (not my real one) moved into a new home. But
little kids like me were not allowed, so I was sent to a special place;
a new kind of "camp" (at least that's what they called it) where I was taught not to scream or yell. Or even cry,
for if I made any kind of noise at all, someone might hear me
and then, I'd have to find new parents. Again!

On "Graduation Day" Dad picked me up from camp
and introduced me to my new Mom.
She's really neat, and she plays with me all the time.
She's always brushing my soft brown hair, and when she gets it just right
She adorns it with a spiffy ribbon or a fancy hairclip;
And every time it gets catawampous, she straightens it for me.
.
The meals she prepares are not as bland, nor as boring, as the ones Dad used to feed me.
Seems as if she's always chopping up green beans and carrots for my supper.
Peas too. Sometimes rice.

They have to carry me in a special basket that makes me invisible
so I can go in and out of our new home without being seen.
Whenever I go out...to the gentle doctor, just out for a ride,
or anywhere, I have to hide in my special basket.
I love my basket. It's my haven during that dreadful, dreary stormy weather,
and it sometimes carries me to my new sibling sister's house.

She's really nifty and has lots of her own kids.
We get to run...and play
Outside, in the grass.
I can get dirty too; and yell; or scream; or even cry.
Loudly...
if I want.

I usually always sleep all curled up between Mom's legs,
just like I used to do with my real Mom. Sometimes on Dad's lap.
I love them both dearly. They always bring me new toys to play with,
And there's always fresh water for me
in a little cup
on the floor.

Ed Prange
3/23/97