Twins by Katie Scott

There are memories of my life that, no matter how many times I recall them, they only play in slow motion. Though I know they happened at the speed of life, my memory willfully recalls them in seconds, stretched out to emphasize the fleeting moments, in an attempt to squeeze out every bit of reminiscence.

I remember being a young girl and admiring my mom. I thought she was a superhero. Not in a poetic sense but I genuinely believed she had hidden powers that I had yet to experience. She spoke in assurance that told me whatever answer I was anxious about not knowing, she had already found it. As an adult, these memories are slightly painful, knowing the development of our relationship did not stay consistent with this narrative, but as a young child, I felt safe with her, despite any terrible situation we may have been involved in.

When I was six, I woke up one morning and asked my mom if she wanted to be my twin for the day. The details of this exchange are fuzzy now, in my older age, but I remember being excited at the thought of matching our outfits and showing the world that we undeniably belonged together. I also remember consciously controlling my excitement when I asked her because I was afraid it would scare her off from the idea. Typically, my mom would recoil in my attempts to be connected to her. She would pull away from physical embrace, become unavailable in moments of emotional vulnerability, and leave me to my own devices when I found myself in a situation that I yearned for her comfort in. As excited as I was to match with her, I was equally scared to be rejected by her. To my surprise, she agreed, almost as if she wanted to. 

I pumped my arm and yelled “Yes!” as I frantically began scouring my dresser and bedroom floor for the perfect outfit. I had studied her for six long years. I knew everything about her, and that included her clothing options. Dressing in mostly functional attire that supported her many home improvement projects, her options were nothing close to the fashion forward wardrobe I had available to me. Nonetheless, I found a tank top and jeans that I knew would work. They were similar, close enough. But not the same.

After we decided on what we would wear, I asked her what our plans were for the day. I wanted to map out just how many people would get the opportunity to see a real-life superhero and her sidekick. She told me a few destinations, with the hardware store being at the top of the list. I hated going to the hardware store. If it wasn’t for the free popcorn given out at the entrance, I would protest the trip all together. But today would be different. Today I would go there to show the world that my mom was my twin. Our main character moment. Me and her. Her and I. She chose me to match with and that made me undeniably hers.

We pulled up to the hardware store, like we had done several times before. I watched my mom as she stepped out of the car and began rounding the front of it. This part of my memory only plays in slow motion.

Everything was striking.

Her Shirt.

A red and white, thinly striped tank top with red piping around the neck and arms, intentionally placed to guide the eye away from the stripes’ monotony. Mine was similar, close enough. But not the same.

Her Hair.

A black, fluffy, picked out mullet. I remember admiring the way the curls, when stretched and formed, made a perfect dome on top of her head. The roundness felt soft and inviting. The bottom of the mullet, full like the top, danced with her movements and the air of confidence that swirled around her. 

Her Pick.

Emerald green with faded white lettering, was always present but never intentionally placed. For years, this pick would bookmark moments of my childhood that seemed ordinary, but now feel unreachable. In this moment, the pick was tossed onto the bench in the front seat, ready for its next use, but tired-looking and eager to rest.

Her Tooth.

The silver one, just left of her top front teeth. She lived most of her life with this treasure. All of mine. It was normal, familiar, ordinary, though I realized later in life, most people perceived it to be none of those things.

As she rounded the front of the car, her arms swayed as she walked. Her jeans were pulled up high for function, not fashion, and her hair wildly controlled in the movement of her greatness. She reached up to brush her hair off her shoulder, and I thought, maybe for a moment, I was living in a movie. She looked flawless. She looked like she was all alone in her own world, and the rest of us were uninvited spectators, lucky enough to witness her magical presence. As I watched her move, I briefly lost awareness of my own existence. 

Realizing our distance, I hurriedly crawled out of the car, running to catch up to her, still amazed at how effortlessly she existed. How was she not scared of a bad man coming to get her? How was she not worried the boogeyman was real and waiting for her under her bed? How was she not frantically contemplating the logistics of Santa and the Tooth Fairy, ruminating in skepticism of their fairytale reality? Oh. Right. Because she is a superhero, and superheroes aren’t afraid of anything. 

I tried to embody this confidence. She glanced back at me over her shoulder to make sure I was following behind her. Her smile, slightly slanted, just enough for that tooth to wink at me, communicated she was enjoying this.

I rounded the front of the car, intentionally slower than my typical pace, hoping to emulate the slow motion I watched her do it in. Around the front headlight, I flipped my hair in the same way she had done. My reflection in the store window gleamed back at me and I checked my performance for accuracy.

Mine was similar, close enough. But not the same.

My stripes weren’t quite the same width. My jeans were a different color blue. My hair, though also a mullet, was looser and bounced around in the breeze as if to just barely hold on to their roots. My tooth wasn’t silver or shiny like hers and I remember thinking, that’s probably where she hides her magic.

I stared at myself in the window’s reflection, my memory recalls silence and sunshine being the only participants in these stretched out seconds. As I stood on the sidewalk dressed like my mom, similar but not the same, I began to pick apart the specifics about me that were missing from my ensemble. My hair, not quite dark and curly enough, my shirt, not quite striped right, my jeans not worn-in enough. Sadness began to replace excitement and, my memory tells me, the sunshine began to fade as I realized I was close enough. But not the same.

“C’mon! Catch up!” my mom yelled from inside the store, the smell of freshly popped popcorn rushing out of the entrance. Jolted back to reality, I was reminded of my purpose for this trip. Today I was there to show the world that my mom was my twin. Me and her. Her and I. She chose me to match with and that made me undeniably hers. I remember the feeling of the sun warming my skin as I ran into the store after my mom. Close enough but not the same, I was for that day, my mom’s twin.