My family’s height is like picking straws, where every straw length is different. The straws, either raising their neck up or down to talk to another. My dad is the longest straw, his wingspan wrapping around us in pictures. My mom is the shortest straw, almost jumping when hugging the long straw. One of my sisters who share the height of the shortest straw tries on the special extra long jeans and proceeds to make fun of the second tallest straw. The straws who are sisters have one outlier. Me. For I am like the empire state building in New York, and they are the two story apartments. I am the youngest but looks like the oldest because of my straw height. The heels I wear can only stare at themselves in the mirror because they can’t look up at my face. It’s too high up.