My Twin Sister

Growing up with Earth as a twin sister was as challenging as measuring the universe. As “youngins,” we constantly banged our heads at each other for rocky, icy asteroids. The biggest and coldest ones were the best; I savored each one I got. By the end of our childhood, though, Earth took most of the prizes. That made him larger than me by four hundred-five miles, and our older siblings noticed our differences with wide eyes as if to say, “It’s obvious.” 

“Look at both of you,” Jupiter told us, laughing like a spaceship playing loud music while zooming through dark matter. “You’re twins; how come you aren’t the same size?” 

“You’re an airhead,” I’d reply every time, knowing everything they said was true no matter how witty my comebacks were. Earth had silky blue hair, while mine was dry and red. Most of all, Earth had life—splashes of unimaginable hues and creeping creatures that made her blossom.

My eyes turned green while watching Earth spin in all her glory. She was lively; I was desolate. Oh, how my core longs for a single seed to grow in me! Many attempts have failed, and I swallowed the bitter chocolate of truth. 

About last week, Earth and I faced each other for the first time in two hundred forty-three years. “Venus,” she exclaimed. Her voice was similar—tender and sweet—except it was devoid of the life she once had. 

“Earth?” I asked. My heart sank. All the other planets thought she would be the most successful. “What happened?”

Tears sprang from her eyes. “The people…”

“But those were your greatest asset…” 

“They hate me,” she said, wailing like a child. “I didn’t do anything wrong, but they still treat me like a criminal. What have I done to deserve this?”

“Oh,” I said, trying to reach out to her, but we had to orbit quickly. 

“Before we leave,” she said. “Can you help me?”

I’d love to, but her life wasn’t in my hands.