I don’t know how to begin to describe today.  I slept in until quarter past seven and was on the road toward Lynnport an hour later.  I stopped at what remains of Leaser Lake and then carried on to Kempton.  On my way back I turned left on the Old Philly Turnpike where I found an abandoned house with a beautiful view at the top of a hill.

When I returned to my Mom’s trailer, we still had several photo albums to pour through.  I was looking for a photograph of my father.  I had never seen him before – or at least I had no memory of him.  When I saw him holding me – even knowing his violent history – seeing him hold me so tenderly broke my heart and the tears fell.

We carried on, my Mom and I; through volume after volume until I had the four or five photographs I needed to prove I was part of something.  I belonged to a family.  I wasn’t an orphan in the world.  And then we said goodbye, and I promised I would see her in a year or so.  And I will.  I promise.

I returned to my hotel to pack and prepare for dinner with high school classmates I had not seen since our nation’s bicentennial.  They were the class of 1975; I was the class of 1976.   I’m certain none of us knew what to expect.  Beckie, Patty and Donna had remained friends through the years, but I had disappeared off the face of the earth.

And we picked up the conversation where we left off thirty-four years ago.  Beckie is still beautiful, Patty still exuberant and Donna still full of sharp, stinging wit.  We had a dinner at the Fogelsville Hotel that lasted for three hours.  We covered births, deaths, grandchildren, divorces and recoveries.

Recovery.  Resurrection.  Redemption.

I found a mother I abandoned, met a father I lost and hugged friends I didn’t know I missed.  I found home again.