She was the baby and the last to be held at the hip of our mother

The last to forget our mother’s heartbeat

She was the one with eyes big as childhood and uncut hair

My little sister.

 

My little sister, while always talked over, was the most outspoken.

Her voice was loud,

Reaching over the hills of my brother and I,

Even the mountains of our parents.

In Elementary she would jump to her sibling’s defence.

If I spoke of a sore heart,

She spoke of how she would make my assailant more sore than I.

Readily she did so, with courage and conviction even I did not understand.

 

It was always my brother and I who the friends of our parents regarded highly.

I excelled in the mind, my brother in body.

She would have to chose one of the paths left by us it seemed.

Whatever she did, always thought of as second place.

It was always Carissa, Matthew,

Then Samantha.

On cards,

In pictures,

In life order.

 

Samantha though, I saw so much of myself in her.

The part that strives for success.

Always painfully eager to please our family and teachers.

Seeking acknowledgment through the unyielding affection of our parents,

And the glossy stickers the good teachers never ran out of.

 

Who could have so much character and personality, but still be ok with being over shadowed.

Sitting back and watching Matthew and I accomplish the firsts,

Knowing she would be seen as an extension of us,

When it was her first home run

When it was her first straight A report card

It wouldn’t be Samantha’s first home run

Or Samantha’s first set of straight A’s

People would say, Mat Steiner’s, little sister scored a homerun today,

Or Carissa’s little sister aced English.

How could she be happy with standing in two shadows.