By Rebecca Swanson

April 4, 2016


They hold hands when watching something new or big or frightening: waves rolling across the beach, fireworks, the part of the movie where Piglet can’t find his friends. Their heads will press together over a book, a game, a map, a worm. When one gets too close, the other shoves. When one cries, the other worries.

They fight over who gets the pink spoon or the peach yogurt. The loser will get the green spoon, the mango yogurt. If the winner feels guilty enough, he offers up both of the prizes in a sweeping gesture of goodwill; he will cherish the praise from his mother and embrace the smile that peeks out from the snuffling face of the loser who has suddenly found himself winning, after all.

They will talk too loudly, and at the same time. They will scream and yell and try to claim all of the attention. “Mama, mama, mama, look at me!” “Daddy, daddy, it’s my turn!”

But when they are alone and think no one is watching, they will talk in hushed voices. The big one helps the little one drive the train through the tunnel. The little one lets the big one sneak in a kiss, or two, before he delivers a swat or a tackle. The big one giggles, because it doesn’t hurt.

I love you, they will sometimes whisper before sleep, before one more tired kick or push. The little one will ruffle the big one’s hair, and they will sigh.


Image provided by Rebecca Swanson

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