Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night with an emotional itch I can’t get to. My best friend got engaged last month and I’m already writing my speech in my head, every night, while the neighbour’s automatic flood light forces its way through our heavy curtains and everything still feels so immediate.
I always felt like the older twin, the one who came first but always had so much more to learn. We used to communicate without speaking—in raised eyebrows and head tilts; in wide eyes and pursed lips. She was a mirror, but always with a better brighter version of who I wanted to be.
The summer nights before fiances, between boyfriends, we took command of entire cities. Leaving artifacts ruined in our wake. We were just people but a force of nature together. Cap ou pas cap? Toujours cap.
Sometimes youth feels like invisibility and a platform all at once. Drapped in each other’s arms at the end of so many adventures, with all these stories to tell, secrets to keep, we were invincible in the kind of friendship that you can’t forge, but finds you when you least expect it.
Now all these responsibilities keep us grounded. Soon she’ll be married, a wife and then probably not too far along, a mother. Exactly like we always planned.
At her wedding I get too drunk, warming my wine glass between two sweaty palms—an offering to the gods of public speaking. In front of me on the podium my ring finger sparkles, catching the light and I lose my place for a moment and clear my throat, wings scrapping my insides as something struggles toward the light.
When I practised I couldn’t stop crying, it was alarming, a submarine filling with water, all of me leaking out onto the page. But the wine has made me calmer, my voice measured out two beats ahead of my brain. It’s over before I know it and her husband (husband!) embraces me whispering thanks into my ear and I hold on to him like the ground is shaking. This is all so new now.
They go to Greece on their honeymoon. I sit cross-legged on my dining room floor assembling the kitchen table my mother gave us. Inheritance hand-me-downs. It’s coming apart at the corners and I think about waiting but drag a chair to the closet and bring down the drill. Manage. On every surface I pile library books according to size and wait for the fees to accumulate. All these late notifications but I can’t bring myself to return what I haven’t read yet.
When we’re older, old, paper-thin. I’ll gather you in my sure hands, winding your white hair into the tightest of buns. Like you always knew I would.