The Youngest

The table was set, laughter carved out space,

while I fumbled with glasses, my hands in a race,

old stories resurfaced, like waves on a shore,

my siblings erupted, I spilled juice once more.

"Look at the baby!" they tease and they laugh,

like I’m still in diapers, still part of the past,

clumsy and lost in the world that I tread,

a stack of plates teetering, threats of my dread.

Each joke is a reminder, that I can’t quite shake,

that time keeps moving, but I’m still the mistake,

beneath the soft laughter, I sometimes resent,

being the youngest, my voice under-sent.