If I Had Been the Only Child Then

If I had been the only child then
instead of one of nine
the home would have sung with peace and quiet,
the yard, gleamed with the greenest grass,
the toys, been sorted just-so.

No brothers would have interrupted sleepovers,
stormed in on “GIRLS ONLY” signs,
and turned playful, Poly-fil fights
into pretend, down-filled ambushes,
resulting in real, bloody head injuries.

Kindergarten homework assignments would have been a breeze:
when asked to draw my family,
my hand would not have cramped up.
I would have had time with which to color neatly
and room for my cat (like the others did).

Perhaps I would have been a talker
if two sisters hadn’t talked enough for all four of us girls.
If the fireman had had eight fewer mouths to feed,
would I have eaten their shares, keeping my own mouth too occupied,
or talked nine times more and eaten nine times less?

Perhaps, but what do I know outside of
stealing floral dresses from sisters’ closets
because my own was an ombré sea of browns and grays,
stealing across the hall into the boys’ room
to swap spooky stories under a glowing flashlight beam?

How could I manage without ever
riding piggy-back through the halls,
brandishing a plastic sword and holding it aloft,
jumping from couch to cushion
while a human alligator chased my toes?

If I had been the only child then,
instead of one of nine,
the house would have echoed with eerie silence,
the yard would have wanted for joyful puddles,
and the toys would have frozen to their organized spots.