I don't remember how I got through the year of 1961. I don't remember how I managed to lose my child and my father within three months. I don't remember ever saying I was angry when I had to give my baby away for adoption when I was fifteen and a child myself. I don't remember being able to convince my mother to let me keep her.

I remember riding on a city bus on steamy July streets a few days after I left the hospital, a few days after I handed my baby over to a stranger. I looked down at my lavender and white checked blouse that was wet all over with breast milk. I was fifteen, with a wet, sticky blouse on a bus in Chicago, alone and alone and alone. I don't remember having anyone to tell how much I hurt inside. How ripped apart I felt. Ripped to shreds and empty.

I remember the blue and white cotton plaid sundress I wore on a hot August day in Chicago. I went with my mom to sign the adoption papers saying I agreed to give up my baby and never try to find her. I don't remember crying with my mom there.

I don't remember, three months later when my dad died, getting angry. I don't remember how I made it through those two losses so alone, so brave, so good, pleasing my mother by not crying in public. Groping my way to my room to shed tears I didn't have permission to shed. Wondering how I was going to make it. And wondering how I was going to make it. And then just making it-but so barely.