No one in my family has perfect skin, except my oldest sister. On my father, small sunspots sit from the scorching sun of Arizona. My mom, complaining about small imperfections peering through as she continually covers them with concealer. My brothers struggle like teens in the awkward acne phase. My little sister experiencing her first pimple. And I gleam with joy over one small imperfection leaving, another visiting in it’s place.
    But my oldest sister’s skin has never experienced a bad day. Her skin, pale like she has never seen the sun, and as clear as the stars in the South, never worries about being inadequate or imperfections. Her skin is silk, soft and light, without bumps or brakes, as flawless as porcelain whilst envy pours from those around her. No one in my family has perfect skin, except my oldest sister.