Always the Smallest

Digging through dust, old memories surface,

a snapshot where I cling to my bear, tight,

as my siblings spill laughter, bold and bright,

shadows stretching long, casting me smaller—

an island of warmth in their sea of jest.

The attic feels alive with echoes of time,

that frayed edge whispers a tale of longing,

a house of heroes I never quite reached,

just the smallest one caught in their stories,

as they grew tall, and I learned to fade.