When I think about being the youngest, I want to feel connected. Tied to
two others who came before me, as many as 3,000 days before me.
Looking out for me from above me, watching as I grew to their height. They pushed me
in the stroller and people would say “is that your sister?…she looks nothing like you.”
Their coffee bean eyes and licorice hair standing out against the gold.
It was my curls of gold and pools of blue that people saw as opposite.
And that seems different from connection.
When I think about being the youngest, I want to feel connected. Sharing with
two others who joined before me, as many as 100 family traditions before me.
Telling their secrets around me, worrying as I stored them away. They put me to bed early and I would hear them tell my parents “she was tired of playing…she is too little to watch our movie.” Their clever eyes and older brains shutting down after hours of play.
It was my younger mind and love of toys that they saw as boring.
And that seems different from connection.
When I think about being the youngest, I want to feel connected. Planning with
two others who left before me, as many as 10 graduations before me.
Saying goodbye as they packed their cars, waving quickly before driving away. They took me shopping for their college rooms and they asked me “do you like this picture?…I want it to look different from home.” It was my love of home and its familiar colors that they saw as babyish.
And that seems different from connection.
When I think about being the youngest, I want to feel connected. Connected with
two others who stand before me. As many as decades they will stand before me.
Laughing, sharing stories, and listening, seeing me as their equal. They recall my younger moments and I hear them say “you were just the cutest…but it is so fun to call you friend.” Their adult ideas and interests blending with my moments and expressions.
And that is what I call connection.
Photo by Shane Rounce on Unsplash
