I am the baby. Not the gold-curled firstborn only child for six full years. Nor the early middle, who weighed in light except in temper and grew quick to tallest and demand. The afterthought, my name was Peter, as my father’s, for surely last would be a boy. But it was not to be.
I followed roads paved fast in slickest asphalt, sturdy, straight and narrow. Dull black ribbons leading to the end of lives and holes filled over; I couldn’t follow. No, my life and end would be a dust that flew around and left its trace on tables, rugs and minds. Life should have been so simple for the youngest, but not learning from mistakes not made by others, I had to make my own. Barefoot hot on asphalt, I hopped around and off the path of righteous glory. Anger, worry, and secret smiles encouraged me.
All greatly loved and equal yet he had his favorite one, and she the other. I often wondered why, if satisfied, they still had me. And wonder if the bonus draw was disappointing, and first straw drawn was settled on instead.
I am the baby, not the one who should have listened to the last two dying breaths of one, covered with a modest sheet the still, naked body of the other parent left to me. I am the errant one, not made to Nadia-dance the balance beam and triple flip in grace across the floor, landing on both feet with chest thrown out and arms widespread to catch the wind. And yet I have. Clumsy with the eager rush to life, the needing of the seeing of the dark, and humor in all else, I slow to patience and soft words, as buffer, peacekeeper, conscience.
I am the baby, growing old.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology