Oldest daughter syndrome part 1
I don’t remember my childhood?Not really, anyway.?Just flashes,?Like static on a screen?Or dreams you lose by midday.
I remember the shift?The hush before the baby came.?Suddenly, I was older,?Not by age,?But by what they asked me to claim.
I remember doing my own hair,?Tiny hands fumbling with combs and clips,?No one to say, “Let me help you,”?Only quiet expectations?And sealed lips.
I remember making my own lunch,?Crumbs of independence?Scattered across plastic bags,?While other kids had notes and napkins,?I had duty tucked in my backpack.
I wish I stayed little longer.?I wish growing up wasn’t a race.?Wish I’d been one of the children,?Not a mirror of their face.
I wish I wasn't the in-between?Too small to carry so much weight,?Yet too big to need comforting.?I wish I had more time?To just play.
Maybe then I’d remember it.?Maybe then,?I’d call it mine.
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