Height. My sister— little over 5’2, to an NBA player’s knees. Like a baby bear standing next to its mom. Just able to make it on the roller coasters, with a little toilet paper stuffed in her shoes. Pants always too long, slipping on the shiny floors wherever you go.

My mom —  Just 5’4, tall enough to reach the middle shelf, but uses tippy toes to reach the top. People look past her head peaking at the view. Can’t see good in crowds, but doesn’t need the view to have fun.
My dad— The tallest in the family being 5’6. Good for reaching the top shelf, bad for reaching the higher things. Lots of ladders in the garage, to help him reach. Never could play basketball, tried football.
Me—the shortest in the family. Once 5’2, but somehow now 5’1. Striving to be taller than my sister. My height always brought up by peers, like they are seeing an elf for the north pole. Used as an armrest, good for going in small spaces.
My sister, my mom, my dad, and me. Described as short, but that’s okay. No future NBA stars nor a volleyball star, but that’s okay.