Being the First.
I remember the long summer nights the most.
The sweet scent of Juniper floating among the breeze.
The croaks of toads and chirps of crickets filling the silence.
The desert sunlight creeping behind the Valley mountains until it was no more.
Through my window I saw and heard all of it.
8:30pm was my bed time. I slept on the second story. My mother would come tuck me in. she would read me Babar the elephant or Love you Forever. I would lay on my stomach and she would rub my back.
I can only remember asking why I couldn’t be outside playing with my friends until dark. silly things.
I had a “hey diddle diddle” music globe that would light up when you wound it.
it is somewhere at home.
My parents loved me. They still do.
Being the first child is a special thing. You experience your parents in a way that your siblings cannot.
You are the first one to test their poise. Their patience. Their mistakes.
You could call yourself a guinea pig, but in the end, you were the first to experience Their Love.