The little things may not seem like much, but children don't see it that way

Childhood.  A time that most adults look back on longingly remembering the things that helped shape them most.  I had a dream last night that took place in my Grandparents old farm house.  There was nothing special or significant about this dream, but I woke up thinking about how often I have dreams that take place in this house despite the fact that I have not been inside it for over 13 years.  This place that I spent so much time in, a place where my father lived, and my grandparents lived, and my great grandparents lived.  A place where I ate homemade blueberry pancakes with real maple syrup, where I  lied on the grass watching the clouds above morph in to familiar shapes and figures as my grandma and I would shout them out by name, and the garage where my grandpa would take me so we could sit in a hideous caution cone colored orange chair reading children's books he once read to my father.  The people who lived in this place along with many other adults in other places I went, molded me, and my mind, and the way I am today.  For example, I love blueberries, and sometimes I can look at things and not see them for exactly what they are, but for what they could be, and I love to read, which in turn has expanded my abilities to write.  My love of photography came from my mother, and my contemplative silence from my father, my tomboyish ways from my brother, and religion from my daycare providers.  

No one could have predicted exactly what would have stuck with me, but whether these people knew it or not those are some of the things and some of the memories that have been ingrained in my mind, and my being.  

As we were bumping along in the back of the white pick up truck through the dirt and dust of Port au Prince, reluctantly headed toward the airport, I was thinking about Papa Cassey. About what his children gained from his presence, and how they so cherished the time they were able to spend with him.  And although I know I will never be as significant in their lives as he was- not even close- I thought about what they will say about me when they remember their childhood.  I have not given them much in the way of possessions, but if nothing else I hope they remember how I kept coming back. I also plan on knowing them as adults, but I just hope one day that they look back on the time they spent at the Good Shepherd Orphanage as children and remember me as the woman who was there from time to time for the little things, like a game of basketball, or cartwheels in the rain, or just a nice long hug.   I hope they interpret my my persistence, my never ending supply of hugs, and my efforts to learn creole as my form of love for them.  And that they will feel blessed, as I feel blessed to know them, and all the adults that helped me along the way.