Updated: Dec 13, 2021
We were two years old. Or were we three? It’s difficult to remember as faded memories clash with nostalgic illusions. I know we were holding hands, steadying each other on chubby legs, cloth nappies acting as a counterbalance, a primal desire to never let the other go. That’s the thing about being an identical twin in those early years; you’re always together, bound within a monozygotic harmony.
Which of us found it first? It’s difficult to know. Perhaps it doesn’t matter. If it was me, I’m sorry.
The water was cold, morning light refracting off its surface, bouncing and shifting as we dipped our hands in, fresh ripples advancing against the pond’s edge.
Did I push you, or did you simply fall?
Our hands came apart, and you’re lost to me. It is always but a moment, the quiver of a heart, and the world blurs into indistinct shapes.
A mother’s touch, and you’re scooped up, coughs that turn into tears.
We played that evening in a shallow bath, neither of us aware of what could have been.
Today we’re both still nervous around water.