I have called him Father ever since we met, though the truth is I was separated from my real Father, and my real Mother when I was very young.
I can truthfully say that there has not been a day since that separation when the cries of my Mother have not rung in my ears, as a waking thought, at the close of a day, or in troubled sleep, when the twitching of my limbs is the external sign of my silent recall of that event. Not always exactly silent. Sometimes I whimper in my sleep.
But my adopted Father has been wonderful.
Seeing him, being with him, dispels that infant pain. It is no exaggeration to say that I delight in his company. If, occasionally, he goes away, I await his return with an eagerness which takes over my whole body. When he returns I run to him in joy. His attention is pure joy to me - a joy which fills my whole attention.
He has cuddled and coddled me, and at the same time, seen me grow hard and lean, keen eyed and vigilant. He has put food before me every day. He has washed me, played with me, taken me on adventures with him, taught me the ways of the world around me, cleared up after me when I have made a mess, brought me little presents, forgiven me my failings, trained me, nurtured me, walked with me, loved me. He has given me a fantastic start in life. I could not have asked for more.
He has been unfailingly kind.
Even now, he has set before me a meal at this unusual time. He must be pleased with me indeed. This is a real treat.
I am relishing it.
I lift my head from my food and turn my loving eyes towards him in thanks. Then, appreciative, I continue eating.
This meal is
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