Daddy and me.
My mother hummed softly,
My father sighed delightly.
In a dimly lit hospital room above a main street store
In Fayette, Missouri,
My grandmother took me in her arms and
Would not let go
For fear my mother would drop me,
Or not feed me or not change my diaper.
My grandmother made sure.
Papaw tipped his Sunday hat and kissed me
On the cheek.
He would hold me later.
When everyone else had their turn.
An Elvis-style teenager put a ring on my little finger
And called me his princess.
I snuggled in a warm Chrysalis
Of love and support.
I had arrived.
Operation Big Switch started.
Prisoners of the Korean War
Repatriated to their homes.
21 American chose to stay.
Loving women they found
They were complete there.
They were not complete here.
People died on this day.
An 89-year-old Texas Ranger who killed bad guys
And then lived a peaceful life with his wife and five children.
It was 89 degrees.
No air conditioning.
People stayed out of the heat.
Near the fans
Lest they, too, be overcome.
People were born on this day, a special woman with Spina Bifida,
A man who would become a fire chief captain.
My friend, Diane, from first grade.
The importance of this day, though,
Is me.
Mark it down.
Why does Google not know?
Untainted by the world
And things to come.
Abuse. Neglect. Choices.
That comes.


I am.

I exist.

I am whole.

I am complete.

Writing Prompt #Trust30, Day 33:  Find something that happened on the day and date you were born. Write about it.