Today, at about 2:30 p.m. in a small church on the Cape, my sister who followed me into the world by ten minutes and for the better part of 22 years led a relatively similar existence to mine, got married. We no longer share the same bedroom or last name.

I just got into town on Thursday, fresh off a six-week stint at publishing camp. In the midst of a swirling mess of resumes, cover letters, and apartment hunting, I came home to watch my twin sister become Mrs. Silva. On Tuesday, I will leave again with the car packed to start my new life in the City That Never Sleeps [Enough]. I have an apartment. It has two bedrooms and an actual living room and I am immensely proud of it, even if I can't quite afford it (or anything, for that matter).

Despite whatever misgivings I had about what uncomfortableness might go down post-ceremony (all gatherings involving many members of my family tend to inspire these sorts of feelings, and really, I think that's pretty reasonable on my part), they got hitched more or less without a hitch. And as I sat in my chair wearing a purple dress that I've frequently vocalized my feelings for and shall not repeat on here (as I would not want my sister thinking I'm some kind of bitchy bridesmaid, and the Internet is a dirty enough place already) I watched my sister dance with her new husband and started crying. When my friend tried to ask me if I was ok, all I could manage to idiotically repeat was: "She's all grown up."

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