She never quite understood her name , while she secretly loved its sound. Speculated our mother had a dream in which the syllables fell from a basket in a scrabble to compose the odd, monkey moniker that stuck. Only sister joined by blood, first friend or pest, and sharer of stories, witness to bats swooping night's swimming pool. Always there. With her loose baby teeth, grinning. Hair akimbo as I tugged and tucked my cowlicks under hard, spiky headbands. T rick or treat tag-along, sucking on Sweet Tarts, three TV shows minimum in the afternoon as dusk sunk Dark Shadows. Gilligan's Island. Bewitched . Pot pies for dinner or sometimes even the coveted poor girls' waffles, soft, with red, seed-pitted jam.