Their youngest, the adored baby of the family for a mere two months, was the most beautiful baby in the world and bore an uncanny resemblance to his eldest sister. His hair had an adorable habit of curling up and out, and his smile was dimpled on one cheek.
The second-youngest, who’d been the second-youngest for eleven years but gladly gave up her position for one as adorable as the dimpled baby, loved singing, the social life, and anything that dealt with Montana-dwelling Hannah’s.
The older middle child was taller than anyone in his family, doted on the youngest, and gleefully pushed the buttons of anyone and everyone else. He was so hecka-pro at simulated battles, imaginary sniping, and flying through the air on (and sometime off) his light-weight, custom-built, haphazardly spray-painted bicycle.
Ah! But the eldest—she was a strange one. As stated before, she and the youngest bore an uncanny resemblance. Both had dark brown hair. Both had one dimple. Both smiled often and slept well. Both loved sweets, and both felt most peaceful at the local cathedral. The only difference was in their eyes: one pair dark, one pair light.
Oh, but the eldest. She was the enigma. Inheriting her stunning looks (Ha, ha) and thoughtful mind from her father, she did well in school and loved books and motorcycles with a quiet, refined passion.
The eldest loved writing, but often found it difficult to do so, as writing required thought, and her thoughts were too brilliant, too real to be put into words. Her fortress of solitude was linked through her Ear buds, in Microsoft Word, out-of-Doors, above the Stratosphere, round and about the World, down Rabbit-trails, across the Oceans, among the People she read about or watched or studied or talked to or admired, on top of Things at all times, beyond Expectations, for the Band and the Trees and the People of Greece, up and over the Moon, within herself and without Prejudice.
Her elder interests were plentiful; the colours with which her world painted were effervescent. The pen she wrote with was loquacious, but her mind kept a tight rein on her tongue, as well as her emotions.
The eldest had been alone in the crowd for many years, and she had become comfortable there. As the years went by, she gained a tough, respectful reputation, and she liked it that way. Extreme wariness grew into a sort of outward introversion, and she learned to be comfortable no matter what the surrounding or situation.
Behind the walls of her image, however, the eldest loved to dream. She dreamed of retiring to
But even as the eldest dreamed, she managed to find niches: in skim boarding, in Band of Brothers, in the Kawasaki Vulcan, in talking to trees, in Fine Art competitions, in alto saxophones, in t-shirts, in dried rose petals, in one and a half piano songs, in Copenhagen posters, in sushi, in books of quotations, in Silmarillion calendars.
The eldest read more parenting and marriage guides than her parents did. Her brain soaked up trivia and leaked occasional drops of genius. Her IQ, while not prodigious, was not average, either. She loved watching favorite movies alone (so she could quote in peace), listening to war movie soundtracks by herself, and talking walks in solitude.
Her hair was long, waist-length. She’d been called a hippie once or twice. She barely reached five and a half feet. She secretly enjoyed being misunderstood by her relations. Everything amused her. She was a quiet anthropologist and penniless philanthropist.
Volunteering peppered her life. And she loved life, but also did not fear death, knowing that her last exhale on earth would bring that first inhale in heaven.
And so, the eldest inhaled last month, and here I am, second-youngest, telling her story.
Ha! That would’ve been funny, but no. It is I, the Eldest. Really.
And, after Angie's suggestion, I have acquired a blog. It's almost sad how long it took me to fill out the profile page and start it and all. But it's all good.
Anyway. Now for my first image post, quote copy, link, and random thought.
We are all of us in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.
--Oscar Wilde
What a Wonderful World
Ok. Now for the random thought.
[Author's Note: in the rare cases that the Eldest cannot, for her life, come up with witty random thoughts, due to an outbreak of Staircase Wit Syndrome, she will subtlely insert a favorite poem or fact.]
The night is freezing fast,
Tomorrow comes December;
And winterfalls of old
Are with me from the past;
And chiefly I remember
How Dick would hate the cold.Fall, winter, fall; for he,
Prompt hand and headpiece clever,
Has woven a winter robe,
And made of earth and sea
His overcoat for ever,
And wears the turning globe.--A.E. Housman
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