FACTS AND FICTION

I'm sixty.  I was adopted in 1948. My biological mother is likely dead.

Those are the facts.

Here are some more:

I never wanted to track her down.  I've been aware of the fact that I was adopted since I was twenty-three.  The person I've called 'mother' all my life is still alive.  She is ninety-one.  Who needs an extra one of those?

But let's say my biological mother was just a kid when she had me.  Hell, she might still be in her mid-seventies.  Maybe she's still in possession of her marbles... and a huge fortune.  She might be able to tell me things about my biological daddy.  Like, what a prick he was.  Or how they were both just kids and he was going to marry her but then the hay thresher took off both of his legs and he bled to death under a gray Saskatchewan sky, her name on his lips as he died, shivering, alone and frightened.

I have a thousand different scenarios.  But no answers.

And as a writer of fiction, that's the way, uh-huh uh-huh I like it.