I think it's abundantly clear I don't own the Cubby house, just hang in it for a while.
Leah was the family Wrapper.
Presents at Christmas time, all doused in a healthy sprinkle of holiday cheer. Red and greens, gold's, purples and all the colours of the rainbow (because she was anything but cliché). Leah liked to use excessive amounts of paper for the wrapping, folding and tucking at odd spots to misshape the package so her inquisitive and impatient baby brother couldn't feel the package for a sneak peak.
When birthdays came around, she was the one who was handed the responsibility. While her father was often held up in elder's council or on a rare business venture now that he was retired, and her mother always visiting the reservations women or playing Suzy homemaker, the shopping fell to her hands. She could stand in the gift wrapping section for hours, feeling the curly shiny accessories her mother always said were unneeded, and perfectly matching colours to accentuate the shape of the present.
In the New Year her brother would walk inside and drop his newly acquired school books at her feet, sometimes with colourful contact, but more often than not he'd be back in minutes with back issues of his favourite magazines for her to chop pictures out of and create her masterpiece.
Now, she sat in the living room, papers and pens and scissors, ripped wrapping and scribbled on cards and wads of paper splashed with words like Hate and Betrayers surrounded her in a circle, and she stared at her finished product.
A toaster covered in bland white paper, so thin the instruction manual on the box could be read through it. No shiny accessories or artistic flair, the only thing on the present that rung of Leah Clearwater was the handwriting, crisp and clear in the boring, unoriginal card, right under the printed, cliché message.
To Emily and Sam,
Congratulations on your special, happy day! May your marriage be a long and successful one.
Leah.