I hear the mountain birds

The sound of rivers singing

A song I've often heard

It flows through me now

So clear and so loud

I stand where I am and forever

I'm dreaming of home

I feel so alone

I'm dreaming of home

It's carried in the air

The breeze of early morning

I see a land so fair

My heart opens wide

There's sadness inside

I stand where I am and forever

I'm dreaming of home

I feel so alone

I'm dreaming of home

This is no foreign sky

I see no foreign light

But far away I am

From some peaceful land

I'm longing to stand

A hand in my hand

Forever

I'm dreaming of home

I feel so alone

I'm dreaming of home.

 -- ‘Hymne des Fraternises (I’m Dreaming of Home)’ by Philippe Rombi

Home (noun): a place of origin. (Merriam-Webster.com)

Home often seems so elusive to me. And perhaps never more so with the passing of those those who’ve shared and shaped my childhood.

As I consider them, today, inspired by the 70th birthday of my sister, Laura, where do I put her, and where do I put them? Where have they gone? They exist in my mind’s eye, certainly, and take bows in the swirl of emotions and memories that clamber in, vieing for attention, like so many dancers waltzing across the floor. Have they gone ‘home’? Where, in fact, is home if you were relinquished in a closed adoption?

Top: Laura circa 1958. Right: Laura, circa 1982. Below, Laura and 'Jerry Boy,' circa 1963. All photos from Regan family archives

Here, today, engendering my tears, is Laura, my only sibling, who died at age 40 thirty years next December. She was a companion in my early years, a playmate and foil for any temptation I may have had to feel forlorn. But then as she entered puberty she lost interest in being a little brother, and was no longer a playful presence, as she provoked a steady stream of conflicts with my parents. She seemed cruel, and yet so brave to me, in those shouting matches that rocked my world. Lacking access to the truth of her origins and undermined by my mom’s drinking, Laura struggled to articulate what she wanted, what she needed, which were the very things I craved -- honesty, love and consistency. (Continued below.)

Above selection from Concierto: "Voices for Peace" (Músicos Solidarios) 2013 Auditorio Nacional de Música de Madrid Madrid, March 10, 2013, Director: Miguel Roa

Unlike me, Laura never learned the identity of her first parents, though we came to learn the outlines of their story after she died, many years after she died. Her mother was a nurse just like Laura, and like Laura’s daughter. Laura’s mother, a woman with the surname Brook, made love with a physician, became pregnant by him, and then she relinquished Laura. My parents adopted Laura and I, separately, four years apart. We are bound forever by a distant vision of home, achingly and only partly realized.

Today, I now find myself admiring Laura’s feistiness, and understanding her restiveness. Like me, I believe, she wanted to understand ‘home.’ She yearned for truth, not the “lost and found” fairy tales we received about adoption. The hard-earned truth, which I have come to find inscribed in my heart, is this: Our pair of closed adoptions were not about “lost and found” but loss and found.

When Laura died, after years of struggle with anxiety and addictions, I found myself benumbed by my anger, fear and frustration. It has taken me these many years after her death to rediscover the love I felt for her. I'm dreaming of home, and finding her there once more. Ger