One to Remember....

Joyce

For five years Joyce had been the "baby" in our family. No doubt my parents doted on her and treated her as their last, savoring each moment and checking off each baby milestone. That was the plan after all. By now they had two boys and two girls and that was enough. I am sure my parents were somewhat surprised when they found out that they were going to have another baby. But it was probably no surprise to anyone paying attention how jealous Joyce became when I came along and dethroned her. She was just another number now, four of five. Not the first born, not the last. But I think she soon realized that my parents would still treat her as their little princess, because as far back as I can remember she and I always got along exceptionally. I cannot remember a single argument that she and I had growing up. We pretty much agreed on everything and didn't step on each others toes. I wish I could say that things remained the same as we entered adulthood, but that would be the farthest thing from the truth.

The child Joyce was wide-eyed and curious. She always seemed eager to find what the day would bring her way. My parents, of course, still doted on her. She was their pretty daughter, their good one. Not like Rachel. Of this they made special effort to mention to both of my sisters quite frequently. For Rachel, it was just another slap across the face. For Joyce, it made her crave even more attention. This kind of treatment could make any child self-absorbed and Joyce was no exception. I think it was because of this trait that made small selfless moments stand out to me.

When I was six, reading had pretty much taken over my life, it was all I wanted to do. Joyce recognized how well I was doing with it and rewarded me with a small craft she had made. She had taken a small wooden heart and colored it blue with a marker. She then glued it onto a square piece of gray foam that came out of a small jewelry box. Something so small and insignificant, but I held onto it until my house burned down when I was fifteen. Every so often I would look at it and remember how proud she had been of me. As simple as the wooden heart, so is this memory. But it is my favorite one of Joyce. It is the one I hold onto when I try to remember the girl she once was but has forgotten how to be.