Horses

My dad adopted me.

My mother and biological father divorced when I was an infant, or maybe a young toddler. I have no recollection of him, only a few photos which my mother had carefully tucked away with my original birth certificate to erase him from her memory and keep him out of mine.

When I was a teenager, I stumbled upon my baby book and found that I had two birth certificates, each had a different last name and father listed. Of course, I asked her about this. She told me of my biological father, his drunken abuse while being stationed in another state, and how she finally caught a bus with a small child, me, in tow and ventured home to her mother and stepfather. She later got a job at an amusement park where she met my dad. I hear cute stories of my toddling around the park like I owned the place and my grandmother bringing me at closing time so my mom and dad could take me to a late dinner. These are not my memories; however, they are my mother’s and have merely been shared with me.

The funny thing is that I don’t remember our conversation about the birth certificates, I only know that it happened. Memories are fickle and choose which present themselves to you and which prefer to stay hidden in the depths of our mind and heart. Sometimes I get flashes of the past, like fading photographs or a commercial where you only catch the very last part. I often question some of the odd feelings that come over me when I think back on a person, place, or situation. Maybe someday those feelings will connect to a memory…. or maybe they are purposely staying hidden to keep me safe from the monsters of the past.

Anyway, I can say that one of my first real memories is of being in a large room with a big wooden table, fancy wood and leather chairs, and the bookshelves that encased the room. I remember a man (the judge presiding over the adoption) sitting at the big table asking me two questions. Did I like horses? Which I guess the man asked since I was playing with a wooden horse figure that he had on his table, and if I wanted him (my dad) to be my dad. Now of course I do not recall my answer to the first question (I am sure it was yes), but I do remember telling the man at the table that I did want my dad to be my dad.

This is one of my first real memories and incidentally it is of my stepfather, now happily referred to as Dad, adopting me as his own. I could not have been more than 3 years old, but I own it…a memory the length of 2 questions.

Do you like horses? Do you want him to be your dad?