Nora Yannick (a story about New York)

Nora Yannick, my twin, is ineffable, and I love her. She is 2.5 minutes older, but those 150 seconds ticking by have somehow transferred into millions of years, made her uncomfortably more wise and more interesting. She terrifies and excites me. Everyone knows who she is. Her favorite color is bright orange, and she sings on our bus ride home to make spare change. She can talk to everyone, and she does, and she is certainly not afraid to be rude.

In 2nd grade, Lily Shapiro was being a jerk, when Nora snuck up behind her, and cut her whole ponytail off. It was that moment, when we became not just sisters, but friends. I was young and afraid; she yanked me into her spotlight, telling the teacher that I had been the one wielding the scissors. She wakes up every morning with a radically different personality, and she has taught me how to deal with them all. Some days, she tells me to wear flip-flops, doesn't tell me that it's pouring, and then she laughs in my face when I step in a puddle. On the best days, it’s just me and her, against the world, running down the sidewalk, dancing, laughing and finding money on the street. Every single place that I go, she goes, even when we’re fighting, especially when she is driving me crazy.

Now we are both packing our suitcases. Although we've applied to the same schools, I've vowed not to go to college anywhere near her. I've convinced myself that we both need independence. Often though, I sit and think about how strange life will be without her. I will certainly walk faster than anyone else, because I will be used to keeping pace with her impatient stride. I will be ready for attack at any moment, and know better than anyone how to stay on my feet, because she constantly pulls the rug out from under me. She has conditioned me to climb up onto a chair and shout my name until I am heard, taught me to have an exoskeleton and a huge heart.

As I decide whether to pack my hair straightener or not, I can't help but wonder if separation will forever maim our relationship. Growing up with her will no longer be a constant, but will instead become warm nostalgia from days past. I will arrive to see her, after a semester or two, and be confused by the changes that have taken place in her personality. Maybe she will suddenly like grapefruit juice better than orange juice. Next time I see her, maybe she will be decked out in things I've never seen, things that I don't think fit her.

When I leave, I won't be as entitled to call her mine as before. She will meet thousands of other people, and she could forget me in that whirlwind of new. People are going to shovel out who she is and implant new things into her persona, and when we face each other at thanksgiving dinner I might not recognize her at all. The slightest memory will flicker in her eyes when we see each other, and I will feel like she knows me, and remembers when we both skinned our knees outside the diner one time.

I worry that if I say goodbye once, no matter how many times I see her again, she will never forgive me, never quite remember me, never love me as much as she used to, and as much as I will always love her.