Somewhere along the way, what my twin left behind is where I seem to have ended up – and it's not easy.
We were both deep thinkers, but she was more forthright than me. She stepped forward, even when it cost her something. Neither of us have had easy lives. People who speak plainly often carry more weight than they show. It shaped her days, and it shaped our relationship.
After she died, what remained of her life seemed to hover: not loudly, just quietly. Her life hasn’t disappeared: it has settled into the background of mine. There’s no simple story to tell. There were things she wanted to do that didn’t happen, and things she endured that she struggled with, completely different struggles to mine.
I’ve learned not to look for meaning in the order of things. As the second twin, I am walking through the spaces she occupied – trying to move through what remains, often alone, not by choice. The life she built still runs under the surface, unseen. It never leaves.
I think about her. Not to live what was, because our lives were different, separate, but to understand the quiet reach of a life that was never simple. She made her choices. Some worked, some didn’t. But they were hers, and they’ve left their trace for everyone whether they know or not.
