By Becky Munoa

The clock on the mantle said it was after one when I finally finished filling out all of the

forms. As I quickly shuffled through the papers to make sure I had completed all of them. I noticed that there was an extra sheet attached to the last page.

"What's this?" I asked myself, ripping the staple away to get a better look.

The paper contained these directions: Write an eight page essay about your life. What was your homelife like as a child? What kind of family activities did you do? You may want to include stories about your siblings. How did your parents get along? What were some of your traditions? What were holidays like in your house?

"I want to adopt a child, not write a biography," I muttered to myself as I walk in the kitchen to rinse my teacup in the sink. I frowned at the half-finished dinner plates sitting on the counter.

Mike and I hadn't had much of an appetite these last few weeks since the doctors had told me that the damage done to my ovaries from the cancer was permanent, and I would probably never be able to carry a baby to term. We both wanted children badly and when I mentioned the possibility of adoption Mike was more excited than I'd seen him in weeks.

I grab a piece of paper as I head back to the den to jot down some ideas before I join Mike in bed.

"How did your parents get along?" I read. "Apparently pretty good since there were seven of us." I laughed rolling my eyes at the question.

When nothing else came to mind that would set me apart from other applicants I began to wonder if maybe a drive past our old house would maybe stir up some memories. The trip was short, only a three hour drive, and the idea of seeing the house excited me.

The squeaky hinge on the bedroom door woke Mike up. "How are the applications coming?" he mumbled still half asleep.

"Almost done. Just an essay that I can finish tomorrow," I whispered while I undressed and set the alarm clock to wake Mike up at four.

"That's good," he yawned rolling over and falling instantly back asleep.

* * *

The sun was already high in the cloudless sky, and the temprature at a steady rise when I left the house to begin the long drive. As time slowly passed, my mind began to wander across all of the years of my childhood wondering what I could write in an essay to show I would make a loving, competent parent.

* * *

Our house was a little cramped for a family of nine, but with a few adjustments there was plenty of room for everybody. Around the dinner table, which had only enough chairs for six of us, two of us would squish onto the piano bench, and luckily, one of us was always small enough to be designated to the high chair. People who were eating with us for the first time would undoubtedly be overwhelmed by the noise and confusion that surrounded our table. It didn't help matters that we weren't a quiet bunch. For instance church was usually spent with my Dad thumping us in the head to get us to be quiet, while my Mom was out in the foyer with whatever kid happened to be crying at the moment.

Sundays were designated family days, meaning we could only play with each other and not any of our friends. We amused ourselves coming up with new and interesting ways to bother each other. One particular Sunday I was angry at my Mom for insisting I spend the afternoon cleaning up my room. rather than be subjected to such torture I simply packed up my most prized possessions: a medal from the Girl Scout Olympics, my special blankie, a battered copy of Anne of Green Gables, three chocolate chip cookies, and I ran away. Being young, and not experienced at this sort of thing, I headed to the backyard. Minutes later my sister Emily came out to inform me that Mom was getting mad and I had better come in and clean my room.

"Tell her I'm not here... I ran away," I huffed with as much attitude as I could muster.

She ran back inside to tell Mom probably thinking, as I did, that I was gonnaa get it. after a few minutes when no one returned I sat down to enjoy myself. Once the cookies were gone it didn't take me long to start getting bored. Just when I was deciding that cleaning my room wouldn't be so bad, Emily and my other sister and brother, Fran and R.J. came out back to play dodgeball. I got up and hurried over expecting to join in.

"You can't play," they said. "You're not here, you ran away."

All of the sudden running away didn't seem so fun anymore, so I ran back inside to put my stuff away. As I was heading back out I heard from the kitchen...

"Rebecca?"

"Yes?"

"You can play dodgeball, but as soon as it's over that room is to be cleaned." Her tone meant business.

"I promise," I yelled as I ran out the door.

* * *

I'm so lost in thought that I almost miss the exit I need. While I'm sitting in the long line of cars waiting to get off the exit, I notice all of the construction going on, and all of the new businesses being opened. I don't remember there ever being this much traffic. The streets seem different, I see stop signs where there weren't any before. New neighborhoods with names like 'Hidden Meadows' and 'Rippling Breeze' have sprouted up everywhere, each house identical to the next.

Despite all of this it doesn't take me long to find my way. The street leading up to mine is shaded by an enormous tree canopy, like it is every year at this time. The neighborhood appears the same except for the sign announcing Rose Circle is bent at one corner. Upon noticing that I pause thinking of what a good name Rose would be for a little girl.

The house looks like so many others in the neighborhood, its brown and tan exterior fading a little more each year, and a few more shingles crumbling from the roof to the ground below. The driveway is empty and I can make out the faded stains left from the countless fixer uppers that lay dormant on its surface. The windows in the front look as though they are forever watching-- recording all of the comings, but these days mostly taking note of the goings. The house looks as if it sits patiently waiting for a family that will never return.

My parents moved away after I left for college. The house could no longer contain our

rapidly growing family, which now consisted of a brother in law, a sister in law, two nephews and two nieces. The day my parents told me the news I climbed up on our roof and looked out over the streets of the neighborhood I had grown up in. We weren't the first to leave. The Nabrotskys, the Christensens, and the Perkinses had all long since packed up and moved away, but I had always just assumed my family would be here. I couldn't stand the thought of unfamiliar cars parked in the driveway, or some other kids' toys on the lawn, so after my family moved I never came back.

I'm glad to see that the new owners haven't changed much. The address numbers on the overhang of the porch are still hanging askew from the years of kids jumping up to smack them as they ran inside from school. The long, slender flagpole out front is still slightly bent to one side and I smile remembering how R.J. would hoist me up to the top by my belt loops and I would wave proudly at my friends below. That was fun until the time I was hanging from the very top and my belt loop ripped. R.J. was barely able to grab me before I went crashing to the cement below. I also noticed that they've put in a new roof over the porch. The old one was knocked out by my Dad on one of his many repair spurts, but then was never replaced. I remember a lot of unfinished repair projects when I was a kid; our antennae was bolted to the pool gate, the leg of the bookcase was wired back on with a clothes hanger, and once when my Dad ran out of wallpaper when he had just one little square left to do he hung a permanent bulletin board over the spot. He was always coming up with ingenious solutions to minor problems.

* * *

I'm snapped back to the present by a mob of screaming children running after the ice cream man. Feeling nostalgic, I wonder if I'll ever have my own kids to come tearing into the house begging for a quarter for the icecream man. Feeling positive since I've already remembered so much I can put in the essay, I decide to take a closer look. I pull around in order to park next to the mailbox. It still has the thick post my Dad welded for it so we could convert it into a basketball hoop and play our games in the street of our cul-de-sac. The hoop was lying to the side of the driveway, half buried in the hedges. I decide to get out of my car, just so I can fix it really fast. I walk over to the hoop and kneel down intending to pull it out of the bushes. As it scrapes to the side I notice the cement slab underneath. As I brush away the dirt, tears well up in my eyes.

I remember the day the seven of us pressed our hands into the grainy cement. It was a

scalding July afternoon and we had just finished renovating our front yard. My Dad had left over cement and made the slab at the edge of the driveway. Marcie, the oldest, was seventeen and would be leaving for college soon. The youngest two, Matt and Mandy were only one. I was nine, and looking forward to having my own room after Marcie moved out. It would be the last time we would all live under one roof, and we all still had our whole lives ahead of us.

I never minded coming from a big family. There was always something going on. On days when the weather ensured we'd be stuck inside we'd tack a blanket over R.J.'s window to make the room pitch black. Then we would take balls of yarn and tie them to door knobs, bed posts, and hanger rods making a giant spider web. Whoever was playing would hide in various spots around the room and wait for the music to start. As soon as the first strains of the "Iron Eagle" soundtrack could be heard it would turn into a free for all-- with everybody attacking everybody trying to entangle each other in the web. The mini-trampoline was usually placed near the foot of the bed so we could launch on whoever was fortunate to be anywhere nearby.

Regardless of the weather there was one thing that was never missed, and that was the Friday night game of 'Kick the Can.'The whole cul-de-sac was the boundary and all of the

neighborhood kids would play. The tradition lasted for years, and when one group of kids got too old to play, there was always another group of younger brothers and sisters to take their place.

* * *

After fixing the hoop I stand up and brush myself off, noticing they've replaced the latch on the gate leading to the backyard. A tiny part of me wants to go back there and take a quick look in the backyard, but I don't think that would look very good on the essay to the agency, so I walk around to the side yard intending to climb up the wall and take a look from there.

"They must be lazy," I mutter noticing that the weeds on this side are beginning to overtake the sidewalk.

I hop up easily and survey the backyard. It's a good thing I didn't try and go back there myself since there are two massive dogs running around on the other side of the pool gate. The sandbox and picnic table are still intact. The pool, which was put in to occupy bored kids out of school for the summer, looks well maintained although I think it looks like it could use a good skim and the hill with the flowers my Mom was so proud of could stand to be weeded. Most any Saturday morning at least two grouchy kids could be found pulling weeds or sweeping sidewalks, either to earn money or work off a punishment.

To one corner of the yard is a haphazard attempt at a fort that looks as though it could have been one of the many we constructed over the years. The half-deflated floaties laying by the pool, along with the towels hanging over the fence make me wish for my own child to teach things to and play games with. I wonder to myself how long these applications take to process? Could it be years before Mike and I are able to adopt a child? Will we pass the thorough exam?

I notice they've painted hop scotch and tic-tac-toe outlines onto the cement which is graffitied with chalk designs and drawings. Seeing all of this, along with all of the memories I've stirred up by coming here, makes me certain that Mike and I are meant to raise a child together. Not to mention all of the material I now have to complete my essay.

Suddenly embarrassed of myself, I descend from the wall and walk slowly to my car. I can't resist taking one last look and wondering if someday I'll bring my own son or daughter back here to show them where I grew up. As I swing my car around to exit the cul-de-sac a mini van pulls up to the yard and kids with kool-aid stained lips stream out as if it's a school bus. I wave to the frazzled woman getting out of the drivers side and she waves back. Feeling confident that soon I'll have my own mini van I head towards home to write my essay.