I just realized with a jolt that today is my adoptive father’s birth date.  He has been dead for many years now but every year I note his birth date.  I used to note his death date which is in this same month but am not consistent with that remembering.  In fact, ‘not consistent’ is an understatement as I cannot for the life of me (if there is pun there, I claim intention) hold onto the year he died.  It’s akin (once again with the Freudian connections) to my inability to remember the date I was adopted, the date I became a naturalized American citizen, or the year that my adoptive mother died. 

Since I cannot seem to remember these important-to-me dates, I carry in my wallet a yellow piece of paper with blue lines, torn from a legal pad, with the dates written down in blue ink.  This non-remembering goes as far as my wondering (often) what this folded scrap of yellow paper is as I search my wallet for my driver’s license or my Costco card.  What deeper meaning flows from all of this refusal of memory?  I do not know for sure.  What I do know is that today many years ago, my adoptive father was born.  He lived his life and then he died.  and in between his birth date and his death date, we walked a path together for a while. 

I miss this man.  I miss my father.

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