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My dad and I are tall, oh so tall—but my mom and siblings aren’t tall at all. No, their height weeps out of worry, “will I always be short?”
My dad and I boast a boisterous 5’ 10” and 5’ 9”, respectively, but no one else is even 5’ 5”. My short sister sees only a glimpse in crowds. My brother sits small like a toddler. His height weeps at its misfortune. Jump balls are never contested and rebounds evade him like a criminal evades the police. And my mom, oh my mom, she’s the shortest of us all. Her high heels reach up to help her seem tall—but she remains small.
Although I like being tall, it’s okay to be small. As a matter of fact, it’s hardly a problem at all. They may be small, and I may be tall, but our love for each other reigns above all.




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