I sometimes wonder – when did my story start?
Perhaps the moment a gentle long-haired nineteen-year-old boy with a Cancer sun met the eyes of a wild nineteen-year-old French girl with double Libra and Sagittarius rising.
Perhaps the moment a nine-year-old girl stepped onto a train from Cape Breton Island to Halifax, on a day in September 1941, having no idea she was being sent to a school for the Deaf and wouldn’t see her family again until June 1942.
Perhaps the moment I emerged out of my mom’s vagina, eyes closed, about to inhale for my first time during the Pisces season of 1981 with a first quarter Gemini moon up high in the dark vast sky and the constellation of Scorpio rising in the east.
Perhaps the moment a judge informed us, on a chilly day in January 1988, that mom would keep custody of us, our grandparents would have us on weekends, and our dad could only see us once a month under supervision.
Perhaps the moment my grandparents intuitively decided to pick up a random long-haired hitchhiker off a dusty road, on a sweltering August day in the Okaganon Valley, only to discover that all three had the same goal: to find my newly pregnant mom.
Perhaps the moment my grandmother realized I was deaf like her and a deep-buried shadow full of unprocessed trauma arose with an urgent mission: protect this child at all costs.
Perhaps a story simply doesn’t have a beginning or an ending.