(Photo by Patrick Fore on Unsplash)

I swear some of the games that come out these days are interesting. What happened to Monopoly, Sorry, and Chutes and Ladders? You know what I’m playing with my three granddaughters now? BeanBoozled. Essentially, in my opinion, it’s a game that lets you fool your family members by pretending the “jelly bean” you’re eating is actually good.

It’s Russian Roulette, really. Either you’ll get a good bean or a bad one. Some of the flavors were grass, dog food, and cotton candy, but the worst of all was the rotten egg.

My granddaughters begged me to try it, but they didn’t know I have a good poker face. We were a couple of rounds in before I somehow got the rotten egg. I bit it in half and was instantly overcome with the overwhelmingly disgusting spoiled-egg taste. How they got that much flavor in a small bean is beyond me, but I ate the half without making a face and looked at my granddaughters’ faces light up in confusion as they waited for me to say what flavor I got.

Julia, the youngest, asked, “Did you get a good one?”

I refrained from laughing, and I responded, “I think it’s popcorn. Have you had that one yet?”

She shook her head. “Well, try it. I think you’ll like it.”

She grabbed it from my hand and popped it in her mouth; her eyes watered immediately, and she gagged. She ran to the trashcan, eager to get the taste out of her mouth while I, my other two granddaughters, and my daughter-in-law burst into a fit of laughter, tears rolling down our faces.

I smirked as she sat back down in her seat. They wanted me to play the game, so I played it.

(This is the second part of a retelling (somewhat fictionalized) of some of my grandparent’s memories)

(Photo by Nikolas Noonan on Unsplash)

Did you know I was almost killed by a tornado? It was probably around March; our weather fluctuated a lot, and in Missouri we were prone to bad weather, especially tornadoes. So when the siren sounded, I wasn’t too nervous. Dad was in a church service, and Mom was in her knitting group. Being their only child, they placed far too much freedom on me, so I really did whatever I wanted. Well, except for post office day. On that day, typically a Wednesday after school, my mother would send me on my way to pick up our mail, the groceries, and whatever else we needed for that week. It’s not like she didn’t have time to do it during the day, seeing that my dad was the sole provider. He was a preacher, so I wasn’t really sure what he did all day during the week, but I’ve learned not to question him or her.

Today, I hadn’t even stepped inside the house when my mom shoved a few dollars into my hand, along with the grocery list, and pushed me toward the road. I picked up the groceries first; we only needed milk, cheese, ham, and bread, and luckily the basket on my bike fit everything. Being eight years old, I hadn’t quite mastered steering the bicycle with one hand, and the last thing I needed to do was to try to do that with all of this food. After a quick trip to the store, I headed on over to the post office. Mike, the main worker there, had a huge smile on his face when I walked in. He already had our mail set to the side, and I grabbed the stack and shuffled towards the door. He cleared his throat, and I turned back around.

“Aren’t you going to greet me, Keith?”

“Hi, Mike,” I whispered before turning back towards the door again. He cleared his throat once more to signal me to talk to him some more.

I huffed silently.

“I’m sure Annabelle teaches you how to properly greet someone?” Mike asked. He always had a sense of authority, like people should greet him like he’s royalty, and he took every chance he could to talk to my mom. My dad always said he had feelings for her; maybe that’s why I always pick up the mail.

I shook my head and shifted the papers in my hand.

“How about school? Do they teach you any manners there?”

I shook my head again, hoping he hadn’t noticed that I’ve been slowly backing up towards the door.

He nodded slowly. “Alright, well I expect you to learn some before next week, okay? I’ll see you then?”

I mustered up a small smile, my hand on the door handle when I noticed it was a little heavier than usual. Mike, seeing my struggle, came over to help me swing it open. He turned his head and paused at the door frame for a second.

“Hear that, Keith? Sounds like the tornado siren.” He paused again, trying to confirm what he heard before saying, “Yeah, the wind is picking up too. Best stay here until the weather dies down.”

The wind didn’t look any worse than normal; hell, I rode here in this wind. Maybe the wind would propel me faster? “I’m only three blocks away, and my mom’s expecting me.” I looked up at him. “Mom wants me home; she’s waiting for me. I got the groceries in my basket.”

“I’m sure your mom would want you here, Keith. I’ve got snacks in the back; I’m sure Rodney’s got a card game or two we can play.”

“I really think I should get going.”

“Don’t be stubborn now, Keith,” He replied. Although it was no use, my mind was made up.

He looked reluctant to let me go. But after my excessive pleas, he did so anyway, only on the promise that I would call him when I got back. Turns out there was no place to call back because the tornado blew through the post office only a few minutes after I left.

(This is the first part of a retelling (somewhat fictionalized) of some of my grandparent’s memories)

(Photo by Amy Reed on Unsplash)

Happy Surprise

By the time I was born, most of my siblings were out of the house. My closest-in-age sibling was eight years older than me, while the oldest was sixteen. According to my near middle-aged parents, I was a happy surprise.

The house was full, though I suppose it should be with five children. Despite the massive age difference with my older siblings, and when they weren’t busy with their own lives, my siblings took me wherever they went on their hip as they paraded me around the town of Boswell.

Kent was the oldest, then came Kelly, Josie, James, and then me, Cassie. Kent was as close to me as he could be, considering he was nearly out of the house. Kelly and Josie were practically mothers to me as well, while James liked to torment me by dangling loogies over my face. They all had roles in my life, and well, I loved them all the same.

TV

I loved Saturday mornings. I’d get up real early, before everyone else, and would watch cartoons like The Smurfs while eating a bowl of cereal. It was the only time I got to watch what I wanted. Unless I was sick from school, and would watch The Price is Right and soap operas with my mom. It was a treat to watch what you wanted because everyone was fighting for the remote.

More often than not, I’d find myself on the floor flipping through the limited channels we had before landing on something my dad would want to watch. My dad was undecided most of the time and would want me to switch to a new show in the middle of the one he was watching. My siblings would never offer to take my place in the channel switching, claiming it was my turn to experience what they did years prior. I used to get up from the couch every time he’d ask, but before long, I put one of the couch pillows on the ground and laid on it. The couch was crowded anyway.

Kitchen Sink Basketball

Every night after dinner, we kids had to sit in the kitchen to do our homework, even if we didn’t have any. My dad would watch TV, volume real loud, as we were forced to huddle around the kitchen table.

Most of the time, it was just James and me at the table. By the time I started having homework, he was in middle school, nearly high school, and had learned all the tricks to keep himself entertained in the kitchen for hours on end. When we didn’t have homework, we’d set our books out, making it appear that we were in the midst of doing our homework, just in case our father would make an appearance. He often didn’t; he was too enthralled with whatever was on the screen. But we didn’t want to find out what would happen if he did come in.

I remember the first time we played kitchen sink basketball. James ripped up a blank piece of paper and crumbled it very tightly before shooting me a grin. I watched as he threw it as hard as he could, and the wad of paper ended up hitting the edge of the sink before falling in. We cheered silently, not wanting to get caught. For the next hour, we took turns throwing paper into the kitchen sink, somehow keeping ourselves occupied until it was time to go to bed.

Kitchen sink basketball became our tradition every night after school, and each night we had more fun than the last. Coming up with new obstacles to make it harder to make it in. If James wasn’t home, I’d play a few rounds by myself before growing bored. I’d often sneak into the living room and lie on the carpet, being as quiet as a mouse while watching whatever program my dad was playing on the TV.

Outside

“Do you want a mud pie for lunch, ma’am?” I asked Sally, my neighbor-turned-best-friend. Today, Sally was Mrs. Smith, one of the guests at our pretend hotel.

“Yes please, with extra grass and dandelions.” Sally and I giggled as I smashed a heap of mud into my hand and formed her mud pie. I picked some grass, dandelions, and threw in some weeds to make this a special mud pie before handing it to Sally.

Living on Bernard Street, I spent most of my time outdoors, a welcome escape from the usual chaos inside. In the summers, you could either find me at the local pool with friends, which was most days and what unsurprisingly contributed to my swimmers’ ear each summer, or doing something outside. Sometimes that involved chores like weed pulling or mowing, or I’d play with my friends in my backyard or theirs. We’d lather up sunscreen and would play all day, minus the short breaks to scarf down lunch and dinner, then we’d go back out. We knew it was time to head in for the night when the streetlights came on.

Growing up, I soon went from making mudpies to playing sports outside. I played softball for a bit, manning first base before I got hit in the face with a ball. I wore glasses, so it tore into the skin around my eye and left a scar. I wasn’t too much of a fan after that. I then switched to volleyball, playing with a few of my friends by placing a portable grill in the middle of the yard to serve as the net. We’d all play for hours, hitting that ball back and forth. I ended up getting the Most Improved award one year.

You couldn’t bring me in from the outside, unless of course, one of my parents called me to come inside.

Thirteen

When I was thirteen years old, my dad got sick and passed away within five months. I stayed with my sisters a lot by sleeping at their houses while my mother was in and out of the hospital with my dad.

I do remember the last weekend he was home, he looked very frail, thin, gaunt. But he still, fighting sleep, never failed to make me smile. He was kind to me, and I will never forget that. Fighting his own battle, but took time to make me feel better.

Losing him so young made me rack my brain for all the fond memories I had of him, knowing I wouldn’t make any more memories with him.

One evening in the dead of winter, Dad walked home from work. I didn’t know why he decided to walk to work, considering it was so cold outside that your ears froze in a second, and you could see your breath. But he walked there anyway.

His nose was firetruck red when he walked in, his body stiff as he asked my mom to make him a hot chocolate, warm up his cold bones. As he walked further inside, he tracked in a bunch of snow, but also mud.

“What happened, Dad? Why do you have mud all over you?” I asked and he slowly took off his coat and saw the mud streaks on the back.

“Turns out it somehow got even colder this evening on my walk home, so I spent most of my walk sliding down the streets.” He chuckled, winking at me as he took the steaming cup of hot chocolate from my mother’s hands. He took a big sip and headed over to the couch, patting the seat next to him. “Come on over here and warm me up, Cassie.” I laughed and curled up beside him, laying my head on his shoulder.

When he died, that memory popped into my head more times than I could count. I liked to picture him how he looked then instead of how he looked towards the end.

Sammy

After a particularly long day at school, I came home and was immediately greeted with a loud bark. I took a few steps in, and rubbing its butt on the carpet was a fluffy little dog with a brown, dirty mouth.

“Mom? Whose dog is this?” I set my backpack on the back of the couch and stepped around the whiny dog.

“Sammy’s ours! I thought he would fill the house with some much-needed noise.” My mom flashed a toothy smile and sat down on the floor next to Sammy. She rubbed his belly and the dog looked as though he had a grin on his little mouth.

“You’ve never talked about wanting a dog before.” I replied, sitting down next to her. Sammy growled the second I sat by her.

“Sammy, no, you like Cassie.”

Turns out, Sammy did not like me and in return I wasn’t the biggest fan of him. He constantly chewed holes in my shoes, only my right ones, mind you, and tried to find trouble whenever he could. He’d walk around the house with a little grin on his face as he scouted what to chew and rip up next. But my mother loved that little dog, taking him wherever she could. Sammy and I learned to coexist, and we both had one thing in common, we loved my mom.

Bingo

On the day my dad died the grandfather clock he built that took up residence in the corner of the living room, suspiciously stopped working. Its usual chimes that echoed the house was now silent, and it never worked again.

Without the chaos of her kids, her husband, and the chimes of the clock, my mother needed a way to escape the quietness and loneliness. To do this, she threw herself into bingo. When she wasn’t at home, I knew to find her there as she used it as a welcome escape.

She seldom won, but I don’t think that was really the point for her. Sure, it would be nice to win prizes and money, but the excitement she’d get for going or the stories she’d tell of the bitch Tammy who yelled “Bingo” just a few seconds before she did. I was glad she had that outlet; I just needed to find one myself.

Absences

My father passed away in the beginning of April, only a few weeks before my birthday. My birthday passed in a blink of an eye; it was a school day, and my mom let me stay home. She cooked up a big breakfast, and the rest of the two meals were whatever I wanted. The night before my birthday, my mom plastered on the biggest smile she could muster and said, “Dream big for your birthday tomorrow, Cassie. You can have anything you want, okay?” I nodded, though tears pricked my eyes. The only thing I wanted was my dad. My birthday was a blur, my siblings came over and we celebrated as much as we could, but I frankly couldn’t wait for the day to be over.

Considering my birthday was in late April, the end of the school year was approaching fast, so every teacher was gearing their students up for finals. I had missed more than my fair share of days and assignments, so my grades had plummeted. My mom was more than understanding and would come into my room each morning, opening the door just a crack, and ask if I felt like making an appearance at school. When I would shake my head, she’d simply close the door and let me have time to myself.

On the one day that I forced myself to go in, despite having an overwhelming urge to skip that day, Mr. Henry, my math teacher whom I despised, decided to call on me for a question that we both knew I didn’t know the answer to.

“You would know the answer if you came to class. You have one of the lowest grades in all of my classes right now, so I suggest you start doing something to fix that.” I sucked in a breath, my bottom lip trembled as I tried to compose myself.

“You do know her dad just fucking died, right? I don’t know how she’s standing, let alone coming to school. So instead of shaming her, why don’t you give her some damn grace?” Allie, my best friend, immediately yelled.

The room fell silent, and even Mr. Henry’s face reddened at Allie’s outburst. Tears flooded my eyes as I mouthed, “Thank you,” to Allie. She winked and she redirected her attention back to Mr. Henry, her head tilted to the side in challenge. Mr. Henry dropped it, and straight after class, Allie headed to the principal’s office, not for her behavior, but to report Mr. Henry’s behavior. I found out that he was not asked to come back to teach in the school district the next year.

The Road trip to James

A few months after losing my dad, my mom and I threw ourselves in the car and drove down to Tennessee to visit my grandmother and drop off Sammy, before picking up James in Texas.

The last few months had been a continuous cycle of my mom going to bingo while I took care of my nieces and nephews over summer break. To avoid Groundhog Day, I’d take them to the movies, the park, the pool, just anything to keep my mind off my dad. Now, James had a different way to cope; he liked to be reckless and do what any normal twenty-two-year-old would do. Drink. Smoke. Do anything he could to numb the pain. James was the wild child of the family, to the point that he was kicked out of the house and sent to our older brother’s house to sort things out. Before that, my mother let it go on for a little bit, knowing this was what he needed. But after a while, she grew tired of having to pick him up late at night, reeking of alcohol and weed, so off James went to visit Kent. Recenter his life, even if it was for a couple of months.

I’ll admit, I liked having the house to myself and my mom. It was quiet. Peaceful. What I didn’t realize was how silence was even louder than his 2 a.m. drunken antics. What was once a house of 7 was now 2. My siblings were cities, even states away. I missed the craziness, the yelling, the fighting, I missed all of it. After several months of phone calls, James declared that it was time for him to come home. Evidently, he was sick of the Texas heat and missed his friends. But I think he was more sick of Kent’s strict schedule and his kids waking him up early in the morning.

I didn’t know how Josie, Kent, and Kelly were coping. I had guessed better than me and James considering they had their kids or spouses to keep them busy. On rare occasions, we’d talk about dad, but most of the time it was easier to avoid it, as if that would make the pain diminish. The truth was that we all didn’t know how to sort through our grief. Every now and then my mom would give me sad stares, as though she felt sorry for me for losing him, despite losing him herself.

Not even a few minutes after James’ phone call, my mother excitedly yelled down the hallway, “We’re going on a road trip, Cassie! Pack your things, we’re leaving early tomorrow morning.”

I smiled and trudged over to my room and threw my suitcase open, before shoving as many clothes as I could inside. This was the first thing she had been excited for since Dad died, and it honestly was for me too. I barely slept a wink that night, tossing and turning as I waited for my alarm to blare. I took the shortest shower of my life and stood at the front door with Sammy all leashed up, waiting for my mom to make an appearance. After a few minutes, she threw open her door and smiled once she spotted me. Judging from the bags underneath my mom’s eyes, she hadn’t slept much either, but our excitement didn’t falter for one second.

After loading up the car, my mother hit the first gas station by our house and handed me a twenty-dollar bill. “Cassie, go get me a large coffee and grab whatever snacks you want. We’ll be on the road a while before we reach your grandma’s house.”

I grabbed her large coffee, a few bags of chips and candy, and a soda for myself, before my mom threw the car in drive and sped off. I wasn’t a huge fan of sitting in a car for hours on end, but with my feet on the dashboard, window cracked, while Sammy had his head out of the car basking in the wind, I couldn’t think of anything better.

After we dropped Sammy off at grandma’s, my mom and I would stop every now and then and check out local towns to stretch our legs. We’d head into little boutiques or whatever sightseeing attractions that the town offered, and before we knew it, what was supposed to be a few days of driving turned into weeks.

We’d wash our clothes at the local laundromat, grabbing snacks and soda at gas stations, before piling in the car to go to the next motel.

After a month of this routine, mom and I pulled into Kent’s driveway, where James was eagerly awaiting. “Took you two long enough.” James said, while I chuckled. He pulled me into a hug and ruffled my hair before loading his bags into the car. After visiting Kent and his family, we made the long journey back home, although it only took a few days this time.

Having James back brought a little more light into our lives, and although he’d find himself in trouble every now and again, such as driving a snowmobile down Main Street, I appreciated the company.

Most nights, James and I would sprawl in front of the TV while Mom was at Bingo, watching some slapstick comedy movie as we munched on popcorn. The world felt a little better having him back, and now there were three of us.

Trying to Move On

Life kept moving, and it felt strange. High school swooped in full swing, and I was busier than ever. Homework piled up, coupled with volleyball practices and games, and starting a new job at the grocery store. I rarely had a moment to myself. Partly because my friends didn’t want me to be alone. I appreciated it, not being left alone with my all-consuming thoughts.

We’d often tan on the roof of my parents’ now mother’s house. One day, Allie got the wild idea of throwing rocks off the roof. Why? Not sure. But I’ll admit it was fun to toss them and see where they’d land. That is, until one rock landed on and broke a car window, and the police showed up. Although the police never caught us, my mom knew we were the ones who caused the damage. A few hours after the incident, she called us down for dinner. We raced down the stairs and sat at the table as she placed the bowls in front of us. In the bowls were various rocks and liquid mud. She had a face of satisfaction as she took in our confusion.

“I guess the police officers in this town are dumber than I thought, not realizing it was you two. Do that again, and I’ll make you eat this rock soup next time.” There were a few times that my mom was strict, and that was one of them.

On the off chances I wasn’t busy with extracurriculars, hanging out with friends, or throwing rocks, I would relax with mom in our big house. I was relieved when she told me we’d be moving into a smaller white house a few blocks away.

Everywhere I turned reminded me of dad, and his closet and dresser were still full of his clothes; it looked as though he simply left to go on a trip, not that he was never coming back. There were too many unoccupied rooms, too many memories; there was no reason to stay there anymore.

My mom rented a dumpster to throw out everything we didn’t need, starting with the majority of Dad’s things. We donated what we could and threw the rest into the stinky garbage.

The little white house was a new start and was one that my mom and I desperately needed. My mom decorated the house in a new style, wanting to rid herself of the past decorations her and dad bought together. The house felt like ours, and it made the ache we felt dissipate.

It still took time getting used to, though. We’d bump into each other often, and Sammy would knock things over from his zoomies, not used to the closeness this house provided.

“Cassie? Are you home?” My mother was used to yelling to get my attention in the big house. We could barely hear one another if we were on different floors, but now that we were practically right on top of each other, my eardrums would ache from her shrieks.

“Yeah Mom, I’m in my room.” I’d reply and she’d trudge over, her hand resting on her chest.

“Sorry, I keep forgetting I don’t need to yell anymore.” She’d chuckle, a sad smile on her face.

Eventually, the spark in Mom slowly started to return while mine was trickling back. After a few months, we had adjusted to the new house, and my mom learned to call for me in a normal octave. Instead of lying around, we’d go shopping or get our hair done together.

We were starting to get better, piece by piece. We still talked about him, reminisced about our past memories, but we found a way to keep living, keep moving forward. Together.

(Photo by Mahdi Teymouri on Unsplash)

• Wearing the same color shirt (God forbid I wear a grey shirt if she’s wearing one too)

• Having to coordinate how I style my hair. Will it be straight, curly, wavy, or put up? (Oh we both can’t have the same look, how else will people be able to tell us apart?)

• Being called the wrong name (happens more often than my own name sometimes)

• Being asked the million-dollar question- “How are you guys different?” - Well, let me first explain the ever-so-slight differences in our physical appearances then if you’re still curious let me rack my brain quickly on how personalities differ

• The second most asked question is- “Did you and your twin ever switch identities in class?” No, I can’t say that I have/wanted to, just because you look like another person doesn’t mean you want to be the other person

• Now, the third most asked question- “Can you read each other’s minds?” - Unless she has been sending me secret messages, then no. Although there was a time I might’ve felt her pain when she got braces, but my own teeth could’ve just been hurting that day

(Photo by Kenny Eliason on Unsplash)

When I was in fourth grade, anybody who was anybody would be on the morning announcements. At this point in time, my mind was dead set on becoming an actress, so when I was finally picked to be one of the anchors, I was more than excited.

Our announcements were on Fridays and while normally I couldn’t wait till the end of the week, this week I was even more than ready for Friday. I got to school earlier that day as I had to practice with the co-anchor to make sure we knew who was going to say what. The main talking points we were going to talk about were sports, the lunch menu, the weather, you know general things. Practicing went without a hitch and soon enough we only had a couple of minutes before we were live.

I remember looking over at the clock with two minutes to go when my stomach dropped. When we practiced, the only person who heard us was the cameraman, but I quickly realized that if I messed up the whole school would be watching. I felt a tiny bead of sweat pool on my forehead as I heard the cameraman count us down. My co-anchor didn’t seem to be nearly as nervous as I was so I tried to play it off as though I wasn’t terrified, but I’m sure my shaky breaths gave it away.

He started us off while I waited for my section. I stared at the prompter in a daze, my throat suddenly felt dry as I began talking, well I guess more stuttering as I struggled to get through my part. I wasn’t expecting to be so nervous so when the camera stopped rolling I was relieved.

I guess my dream of acting was only going to be a dream.

(Photo by Adlan on Unsplash)

Whenever I tell someone that I’m a twin I can instantly tell what question they have in the back of their minds. To cure their curious minds, they rattle the dreaded “fraternal or identical” question and I have to avoid rolling my eyes and explain that despite looking practically identical, me and my sister, Madelyn, are somehow fraternal. I’ll admit it gets confusing. And to ease the confusion or embarrassed reactions from those who can’t tell us apart, I’ve gotten used to responding to her name before my own, and I’ve even gotten used to being paired as a group instead of being viewed as individuals. If it’s not the fraternal or identical question, the next slew of questions that usually follow generally consists of: “Who is the smartest one? Who is more athletic? Who was born first? Who is the tallest?” I’d quickly respond that she was the oldest, tallest, and the smarter one out of us, while I was more athletic than she was. But frankly, these are just a sample of the hundreds of questions I’ve been asked over the course of twenty-six years. I would grudgingly answer the other ones, but the one that never sat right with me was “Whose is the smartest one?” I know it’s an innocent question, but it bothered me from third grade leading up to the end of high school. I could never escape from it, and eventually, it got to the point where I compared myself to my sister more than others did.

Let me preface this and say that I don’t hate being a twin. It has its benefits for sure, but I know a lot of twins would agree that there are downfalls more than anything. Particularly when it comes to the constant comparison that twins have either placed on themselves or what others place on them. My twin and I are no different. We both have competitive streaks in us, and we occasionally like to brag if we beat the other. And while a little bit of competition is healthy, the extent of what twins go through, or at least what I put on myself, wasn’t.

I remember I first felt the pressure of competing when I was in third grade. I was sitting in the speech room for the kids who had trouble pronouncing certain letters and words. The room was decorated with colorful frogs that had the alphabet letters on their bellies while the rest of the room was packed with several bookshelves with books for students like me to practice from. In the smack-dab middle of the room was a small table made for kids, but I don’t think they took into account that adults couldn’t sit behind it. I fit comfortably under the table; I’ve always been short. But my teacher, Mrs. Young, was obviously taller so she didn’t.

She would cram her long legs under it during our thirty minutes to an hour session each day while listening and sometimes correcting me over my pronunciation of certain words. I struggled with words that either began or ended with “th,” and don’t get me started on how long it took me to correctly pronounce thief. Anyway, while I was repeatedly hunched over these books, my sister would be taken to a high-ability math class across the hall from me. Each time my sister’s head popped into the little glass of the door she’d give me a small wave. Her teacher would then shuffle her and the rest of the students into the class while I was stuck with Mrs. Young. Don’t get me wrong, I thought Mrs. Young was nice. At the time, I liked being praised with stickers for saying a word right in the dozens I didn’t. When I was distracted from my sister’s presence, she would gently bring my attention back to the book by saying something along the lines of, “How about this next word, Brianna?” But during the several months I was there, I felt that my sister was moving forward while I was playing catch up.

My daily speech sessions lasted for the majority of that year, and as I was wrapping up one of my last sessions, Mrs. Young encouraged me to try out for the spelling bee after noticing I could spell almost every single word in those books with no problem.

“Come on, Bri. You and I both know that you have a fighting chance here.” She bore a soft smile, knowing that I’d never agree if she pushed too hard. I was naturally shyer than my sister, so the thought of standing on the stage in front of the rest of my classmates and parents terrified me.

“I’ve read these books so often I must’ve memorized the words.” I replied, my foot tapping on the carpeted floor, more than ready to leave this conversation.

“Think about it, okay? I think you’d do better than what you think.”

I nodded but gave it no thought until our next session, where instead of coaching me to pronounce words correctly, she quizzed me for the better part of an hour on how to spell words. After getting nearly all of them right, she sat back with a knowing grin on her face.

“See? What did I tell you? You just gotta believe in yourself, Bri.”

Of course, when the time came, I forgot her kind words and instead focused on the bright lights that blinded me every time it was my turn to walk up to the mic. I’d squint and look at the moderator, shaking uncontrollably as I’d swallow the lump in my throat that kept making an appearance every time I’d spell a word. When I was one of the last three kids remaining, my nerves got the best of me when I locked eyes with Mr. Rogers, the moderator, who was an exceptionally intimidating man for an eight-year-old.

“Okay, Brianna. Your next word is happiness.”

My mind slowly processed this, but my mouth talked faster than I was anticipating, and I rattled off, “H-A-P-P-N-E-S-S,” before I meant to. I searched the crowd for my parents and sister as soon as I finished, already well aware that I messed up when I knew the word by heart. I had to wait on stage until the next two contestants battled it out and eventually a winner prevailed about twenty minutes later. The blinding lights still shined in my face as I sat in that blue plastic chair that creaked any time I shifted on it. I contemplated multiple times to get up, walk off the stage, and weave through the crowd of parents and other students so the attention wouldn’t be on me anymore. However, since my chair would make too much noise if I tried to get up, and the thought of facing my sister and parents after this loss, I stayed on the stage as long as possible. I knew that they would have an encouraging reaction and that proved to be the case when the event was over and I gloomily walked over to them.

“Bri, honey. You did so great up there, I’m so proud of you.” My mom smiled down at me, giving me a side hug while my dad reiterated the same thing. To a certain extent, they knew how much I competed with Madelyn, so they always tried to show me that I didn’t need to. They saw us as individuals when I only saw us as competitors.

I turned to Madelyn who hugged me and whispered in my ear, “I couldn’t have done that.” I gave a small smile and nodded, even though everything in my mind screamed that she was lying and only told me that to make me feel better. I must’ve had a sour face after that comment because my parents both had a stern, but empathetic look that practically said to set aside my competitive feelings for once and focus on my near win. Instead of acknowledging the fact that I made it to the top three, I focused on how I knew that my sister would’ve spelled it right had she been up on this stage. She didn’t even get into the spelling bee, but my adolescent mind resorted to beating myself up over this tiny mistake and thinking about how she would’ve beat me had she been in it. To this day she still struggles to spell, but at the time, I couldn’t see that my strengths were her weaknesses and vice versa. In that moment, I didn’t truly recognize my accomplishment. I found another way to diminish my strengths and compete when I didn’t need to.

Throughout elementary school, me and my sister were strategically placed in different classes. My parents didn’t care if we were in the same class or not, but after multiple, lengthy conversations with the principal of our school, they found that each year we purposely got placed in different classes in the “fear” that me and my sister would fight. Most of the time we got along, so we never really fought, and that proved to be the case when my mom pushed for us to be in the same class with Mrs. Gryskevich. My mom heard that Mrs. Gryskevich was the best teacher for fifth grade, and I was happy I would be in the same class as her as I thought she was noticeably ahead of me after I had a series of some not-so-great teachers.

My second-grade teacher basically repeated all the information we learned from first grade, while my third-grade teacher spent most of the day crying at her desk about her impending divorce. My fourth-grade teacher was not much better as she was more concerned about us coloring than teaching lesson plans. Thankfully after my parent’s insistence, I was placed in the same fifth-grade class as my sister, and while I thought that would be beneficial for me, it turned out to be the opposite.

Instead of being worried about us fighting, my fifth-grade teacher, Mrs. Gryskevich’s, main struggle was trying to tell the two of us apart. It only took a few days to see that she made the mental note that I wrote with my left hand and my sister wrote with her right. Throughout the year she developed other ways of telling us apart such as how my sister was taller and had longer hair. But my mind gravitated towards thinking that she told us apart by our grades, and more specifically how Madelyn’s test scores were consistently higher than mine.

Mrs. Gryskevich would treat us the same as she would any other student, even if I got a much lower score than my sister. Every test we would get back I would turn to my sister who sat in the back of the class while I sat in the front and mouthed,

“What did you get?” I could see her internally sigh before telling me her score, but she would mouth it anyway.

“94.”

I’d nod and turn back around in my seat, staring back at my 85% or whatever the test score was, irritated that I “lost” yet again. She’d never rub it in my face when she’d beat me. She’d always whisper what she got, not as if she knew she beat me, but almost as if she hoped that she didn’t as she knew how much I took it to heart. Now, there were times when I did end up beating her, though they were few and far between. And the satisfaction I thought I would feel never truly came because I knew it was only a matter of time before she’d beat me again.

Not surprisingly, the feeling of competition only got worse in high school because every test and homework assignment felt like it would make or break whether or not I’d make it into college. That obviously wasn’t the case, but I felt like I had to step it up for everything I did in high school to ensure I got into the same colleges she did. For a couple of years, I was better about not competing as much. Once I hit middle school, I realized that I had test anxiety while she didn’t, and because of that, I began to understand why I wouldn’t perform as well as she did. I tried to keep that realization in the back of my mind because I could tell this comparison was not only wearing her down but me as well. And I was doing better for a little while until we reached senior year when she was once again placed into the “higher” math class.

When we got our schedules for senior year, I could tell by her uneasy expression that she was placed in a class that I wasn’t.

“Wait, why were you placed in that class, and I wasn’t?” I asked, I held both of our schedules in my hands, growing more frustrated as I could see the wheels spinning in her head.

“I think teachers recommend us for classes, so I’m sure that’s why.” She replied, taking back her paper as I slowly nodded. Annoyance and hurt surely flashed on my face as she sighed, bearing that same frustrated look that had grown more prevalent throughout the years.

“Is this really going to bother you? God, I can’t keep fighting with you about our grades anymore. I’m not going to let you make me feel bad because you know how important this is to me, you know how I want to do accounting and taking this class will help me prepare for it.” I remained silent for a minute or two, while she paced around the room as she always does when she’s either upset or stressed, which is often. “Bri, this has got to stop. Are you going to do this in college too? We want to do completely different career paths, you want to do marketing and writing while I want to do accounting. How could we possibly compete with each other when we’re doing totally different things?”

At the time those words stung, especially because I hadn’t realized how much this affected her until she had to yell at me to understand that my competing didn’t only affect me. While we argued from time to time, this was one of the few instances where I couldn’t fight back because I knew she was right. I think it was at that moment that I realized that this competitiveness that deeply resided in myself was doing more hurt than good. While competition is healthy at times, the extent to which I thrusted it upon myself and my sister damaged our relationship more than when others would compare us.

Now, there will always be competition between twins, or even siblings for that matter. But instead of dwelling about the ways she’s “beat” me, I need to continue to not fall into the trap of not recognizing the importance of my own accomplishments because I thought they weren’t “as great as hers.” After being grouped together as “the twins” our whole life, I got in the habit of grouping us instead of seeing us as individuals. I don’t know what sparked that competitive streak in me. Perhaps it started when those innocent questions would be thrown at us to see who was the “better” twin and I fell victim to comparing us more than what others would. Thankfully, that long bout of competition didn’t put a strain on our relationship as she understands the pressure twins have to be “equal” to one another. But now looking back, I realize how different people we are and how those “competitions” didn’t truly matter.

(Photo by SAJAD FI on Unsplash)

There was a time, and it was many years ago, when my grandpa showed me his cane collection. This was during one summer afternoon in 2007 when I was probably nearing ten years old. The sun was beating down on us as we fished in his nearby pond before we ultimately gave up and decided to put away our fishing gear. During the days I visited, we’d spent most of our time outside. I was still in my tomboy stage, so I’d throw on my helmet for my dirt bike and take off as fast as I could go. Of course, my grandpa would always trail behind me on his four-wheeler, his eyes watching me carefully to ensure I wouldn’t fall off, or worse.

Most of the times I’d visit it would be May, or sometimes June and I remember that after that beautiful morning, the afternoon turned gloomy and it started raining. My grandpa loathed the rain. He hated being unproductive during the day, especially when all of his work required him to be outside.

So, to get past his rainy blues, he decided to take me over to his garage to help clean it out. While he won’t admit it, he has OCD, so everything in his garage is perfectly placed. Most of the time I would stand there with my hands in my pockets, not wanting to mess up anything. He had rows of fishing poles, thousands of keys, and nearly fifty canes hanging on the wall.

I’d ask him each time I’d walk into that musty garage, curious as to why he had those canes when he didn’t even have one himself. After asking multiple times, he finally broke down with a sad smile on his wrinkly face and told me the stories these canes left behind. My grandpa owned a nursing home for the better part of his forties and fifties. He kept the home running, running back and forth between learning the best practices of keeping a small nursing home afloat while mingling with guests of the home. So, after my pestering, he brought down each cane off the hook on the wall, his smile wide as he explained the person who owned it before him.

After going through at least twenty canes, he landed on Ed Gilmore’s. After hearing all of his famous stories, I could tell he was probably my grandpa’s most beloved guest after running the home for over two decades, whether he liked to admit it or not. My grandpa didn’t talk to him often, but that was only because Ed would fall asleep whenever he was in the middle of a conversation with someone. He’d be fully alert one minute, and then the next his head would be to the side, drool flowing out onto the side of his face due to his loose dentures. Since Ed, my grandpa started a saying in my family that whenever we’re tired we get “the Ed’s.” My grandpa had thousands of stories about his residents, but they were only ever told when we were in his garage, looking at the racks of canes.

A cluster of dragonflies skimmed the top of the murky water, landing on top of the dingy, green moss at the edge of the pond. Occasional bubbles rippled through the water. Hope sparked through my veins, only to be converted into disappointment as my pole stayed still like it had been for hours now. A couple of minutes passed though it felt longer, beads of sweat rolled down my face as it took all that was in me to not sigh loudly. I pushed my damp hair to the side, most of it fell out of my loose ponytail as I shifted the balls of my feet on the muddy ground. My eyes glanced over to my sister, her pole continually dipping as she caught fish after fish. I rolled my eyes, growing increasingly agitated as mosquitoes continually hit our necks despite our best efforts of swatting them away. I never liked the idea of fishing. I really had no patience, no desire to stay fixated in one spot for hours. My allergies were going haywire the longer I stood, but the grin on my dad’s face prevented me from saying anything.

My dad looked down at me with amusement, sensing my frustration as my increased breathing was audible over the silence the pond possessed. “You’ll get your turn, don’t worry.” I remained silent, my eyes glued to my pole as he shook his head, stifling his laughter as he whispered, “Don’t pay attention to her. Just keep your eyes on the water, stay alert to any nibble or any tug on your pole.” I nodded, feeling my anger lift as I felt a slight jerk of my pole. I gasped, glancing up at my dad as he motioned for me to keep watching. The pole twitched harder and pulled me forward slightly, the mud beneath my shoes slick as I tried to reel the line in. My dad stepped in, holding the pole steady as he noticed my arms growing tired the longer I fought with the fish. Sweat dripped down my face before I finally had it, the blue fish hanging on the bottom of my line staring back at me. The fish flung around, splashing cloudy water on our clothes before we freed it, quickly throwing it back into the water. My dad smiled down at me, wiping a few scattered water droplets off his face, the wrinkles by his eyes prominent as he directed his gaze back towards the water. He then nudged me, a hint of playfulness in his eyes as he said, “Now let’s hope I can catch one.” I smiled back, looking back at the water like he was, waiting for the next bite.