Friday, January 28, 2011

The First

Fifty two years ago today, my sister Sandy was born.  Come May of this year, She will be gone for four years.  I wrote this during the early morning hours before her funeral.



The First
by David Roth
© 6th May, 2007 1:00 am
For Sandy

You entered our lives and our world in the usual way,
tiny, noisy ball of fluff,
born to crave attention;
to command it,
and to succeed.

From that first tiny rumble
to the fury you would become,
you were a disruption from the very moment
you took your first earthly breath.

And we loved you!
Oh, how we loved you!

From the very beginning
we sheltered you, we three.
Sheltered, pampered, spoiled and protected.
Now and then, we even took the paddle for you.
And how quickly you understood
the profoundly far reaching implications
of that singular act of foolishness
on our parts

You.
Small, noisy, effusive and belligerent,
you understood it all,
for there you would stand,
teary eyed bushel of dimples and curls,
all you had to do is smile,
shed a tear,
quiver that little lower lip
and we would stumble over each other
to rush to your aid.

"No, Mom, send me to my room.
"No Dad, give me the spanking instead.
"But not her. Not Sandy. Not the Moose.
"It’s not her fault. She’s just a baby.
"I must have done something
that made her do it.
"Punish me instead."

Time after time
we willingly rushed to her aid,
this tangle of wildly flying curls
wrapped around a little girl’s passion,
riding in like gallant knights on a noble quest
to rescue the sweet, innocent damsel in distress.

For you were the first.

After three strapping boys
there was finally a little girl
to love, cuddle, dress up in frilly, lacy things...
and spoil.
And you were his first,
this new man in our lives.

So spoil you we did.
Gladly, willingly, and repeatedly.

And oh, how we loved you,
worrisome thing that you were.

Others would follow you
other sisters
other brothers
but you would always and ever be
the first.

And now you’ve done it again.
This time you’re the first
to leave the rest behind.
On the second day of May
in the forty eighth year of your life,
as suddenly as you had come
all those years and miles ago
you were gone.

Sandy.
Sam.
Moose Caboose on the Loose
A Rose by Any Other Name...,
the Bard proclaimed,
and the songwriter said,
“All ribbons and curls,
ooo, what a girl.”

You were an enigma;
joy and tribulation
bundled together in a compact package.
We love you now
even as we loved you then,
and our hearts are heavy
for your passing.

Fair journey, Sam.
You are the first.
Forge well the path
until next we meet.
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