I have always found photo albums comforting. Whenever I felt insecure or even bored, I could go and pull out the worn and dusty volumes and look. There were my now divorced parents feeding each other cake. My sister and I showing each other affection. Snow men and birthdays, gardens and friends, and mostly lots and lots of memories. As a parent, I have become the camera holder, picture taker and creator and keeper of the photo albums. There is a love and an affection that comes with recording your children’s history in Polaroids and snapshots.

Each picture of my son whispers this is how much I love you.’ The other night I watched the interview with Rosie O Donnell. I, along with most observant people in this country, already knew she was gay. But it also forced me to think about the true plight of foster children in this country. I had known that many are unwanted and most will not be returning home. A system set up for temporary placement is no longer affective. After really thinking about it, I realized something that made it real for me. These children have no photo albums. There is no one taking pictures of these children and pasting them in a book for them to show to their grandchildren. Any pictures taken are kept by the families. These pictures will be pointed at and remarked upon only as This is Robbie, that foster child we kept a few years ago.

There are no baby books, or birthday pictures for these children to look over; no history, no memories, and incidentally no comfort zone where they can go and feel loved. My great-grandmother kept foster children. There is a picture of her with four or five of them. She is sitting on a bench wearing a white dress and they are all sitting beside her. I don’t know their names, and heaven knows where they are now. But we have their picture. This haunted me all week, and I finally found myself at the Hallmark store at the mall trying to find the perfect photo album. I found it.

Each page has space for two pictures, one on top of the other, and five lines of space next to each so you can write whatever you like. I went home, obsessively shoved pictures in and jotted down what I could on each one. I cleared off the bottom shelf of our bookcase and claimed it for baby books and pictures. Here my children will find my love, their history and a complete sense of self. I only wish I could give that to all children. I write this in hope that someone will.

Abigail is a junior in English. Her views do not necessarily reflect those of the Daily Egyptian.