BY MIA PENNEKAMP ’20
I remember the blackened tooth my sister had for a year because I let go of the rope. The game was tug-of-war; she was three and went crashing down onto the hard marble floor. I think I won that round. Ivy, four years my junior, looks a lot like me — with a few key variations. While I’m pale, she’s sun kissed. While I wear my dark hair straight and long, she embraces the natural tumble of her lighter locks. All of our shared features are softer on her. In both looks and personality where I’m sharp, she’s soft. I thrift cleavage-bearing tank tops, blue jeans and mini-skirts. She buttons up in head-to-toe J.Crew. Our differences become increasingly apparent beyond the physical. She’s calm and content while I’m loud and restless. Sweet where I’m snarky. Faithful where I’m questioning. She is orderly and organized, relishing in routine. I don’t make the bed, or the curfew. She would never let go of the rope.