Fragments of a Memory

I was in a meeting with my boss. She and I were talking about someone whom I will meet tomorrow. Explaining about the man, she mentioned, "and he has three adopted sons." I asked her "Are they brothers?" and she said "Yes." I was filled with pride and joy for the man who would adopt three brothers and raise them like his own, as only Americans know how to do. I also remembered one of my sadder memories in life, when in 1990 I thought briefly about what it would be like to adopt three little girls who for some reason were stranded in London, all alone, and the Welfare Department of United Kingdom had run a full-page ad with their pictures in Kayhan London, asking Iranians to consider adopting them. For a few hours on that day, I dreamed of adopting those little girls, adding them to our family, making them sisters to the boys. I thought about rescuing them and giving them a home and a family and all the love I know I can give to all, and particularly, to my children. It was such a wonderful time, those few hours. It didn't work out, for reasons better left unmentioned, but some days I feel I have ached for those little girls now for 16 years. I am proud of the man whom I'll meet tomorrow, who has adopted three brothers. Some days I think my boss thinks she has hired a complete lunatic, as I wiped the tears from my eyes.