It was only a dream, though I longed to stay there. First my foster son came to me: beaten, fearful, longing for love. “Can he stay here?” the people standing behind him on the porch asked, “He can’t go back there.”
“Of course,” I replied, and took my son inside; still a child; still wanting to be with me; still wanting ‘this’ to be home. From wherever they were, the girls followed close behind.
I read the file belonging to the youngest. “Nguyana” was written at the top. I hadn’t the time to question it; there was so much to do.
I cleaned their rooms and set up their beds. The younger two were still in cribs. I prepared my birth son as best as I could for their homecoming.
I was in the baby’s room, watching the girls play. “I love you,” the preschooler told the baby with strong emotion. “She has grown,” I thought; feeling thankful that they were mine once more.
Their brother walked into the room. “They called her Gooyanna,” he told me, “We didn’t like it.” Well, they were only foster parents, it wasn’t a legal change. “We will call her (by her real name,)” I told him, and he was satisfied.
It was only a dream. It didn’t last long. My children came to me, but when I woke they were gone. I was sad, and longed to return.
They come to me in my dreams. Only my dreams. And I wish I could remain there with them. I awaken sad and broken for only when I am with them do I feel whole.