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

© 6^th 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.