Born one and a half years before me, you got to do everything first, well, almost everything. You crawled, took your first steps, celebrated your first birthday, said your first word – I think it was Dada, and even sat on Santa’s lap, all before I popped my head out into the world.
I always looked to you to see what was coming next in my life. I saw your hair turn from golden blonde to a dark brown, as did mine, except yours was darker but we both had wavy curls. When your first day of school arrived, you were ready to take on the academic world, wearing a maroon dress with a white lace collar, Mary Jane shoes, and white anklet socks with lace around the tops. With shoulder-length wavy hair carefully combed in place and clutching a tiny bookbag, empty except for a pencil and an eraser in the shape of a dog, you marched out the front door hand-in-hand with Mom, as Dad took picture after picture. Dad and I trailed behind Mom, leading the way – a whole half a block – to the two-story red brick elementary school. Running up the school steps, you whirled around, posing for Dad, whose finger sent the shutter rapidly clicking. I wished I was running up the steps that day – I wanted to go to school with all the big kids, too. Instead, I went home, gathered my teddy bears and stuffed doggies, arranged them on the floor of our bedroom, plopped myself in front of them, and with crayons I wrote A B C and 1 2 3 on a piece of paper and began teaching my class. My turn did come one year later when, wearing a blue dress, I ran up those same steps, spun a revolution and posed for our photographer father.
He wasn’t a professional photographer but it was his passion, just like it was for his father, our most beloved grandfather. We all lived together in a two-family house with a small backyard in a major city on the east coast. Grandma and Grandpa lived on the second floor and we’d often see them smiling down upon us from their large kitchen window, as we ran around playing or splashed in our tiny pool. I tended to run faster and tumble harder, the first hint of our slight differences among our commonalities. During the warmer months, our grandparents would sit in the yard with us – that was always a special treat! Grandpa always wore his brimmed hat, beneath which his eyes twinkled and his smile radiated warmth. Read more