Twinship Lasts a Lifetime

Photo: Mitchell, left, and Marshall, right, eating mud pies on Ensenada Court in South Mission Beach, circa 1962

     I was born an identical twin in 1959. Fast forward sixty-two years, and I'm still an identical twin. To be sure, twinship lasts a lifetime.

     Over the course of our lives my twin brother and I have rolled with the punches across several estrangements, tragic yet comical ups and downs born of a deeply intrinsic stubbornness vented in the refrain, you're not the boss of me. 

     We've endured topsy-turvy turmoil beyond belief! Thankfully, all the big stinks and ruckuses, fisticuffs and all, are for now, at least, like water off two dead ducks' backs.

     During our last five-year schism, which began with the death of our mother in 2016, only my angioplasty would turn the tide. One balloon and two stents later, I came to my senses and reached out to my younger twin, known affectionately as Mars.

     His second ex-wife Eva, now departed, gave him the nickname. She liked to spell it with a z rather than an s, as in Marz. Entering the world roughly two minutes after me, Mars is the second twin in our online journal. And in this last hurrah, we'll write to our hearts' contents until we are no more, setting apart in printed words our twinned tête-à-tête gleefully strung together—together!

     I'm the other half of this blog's subject matter. The firstborn and I are mostly French and German, however, somewhere along the spermatozoid trail of hot-bedded balling and cold, straw-lofted coitus, a pale English wench and red-freckled Irishman climbed pussy bare and cock naked up into our family tree. Guessing from the perspective of my very own heated and heavy, taboo-breaking sexual inclinations, I'd say together, and during the same ball-popping, orgasmic encounter.

     I also want to fast forward, because the forwardness of here and now is all that truly exists. Yet of our recent past, I did feel very much more alone on this big, blue globe without the warmth of Mitch's presence to reinforce the tungsten tip of my ice-breaking ship.

     Indeed, a sad melancholy shrouded my being, as if cursed mistletoe were being held over me by an evil leprechaun's hand. Sure, I went on, as we all must and do, but the missing spice in my secret ingredient left me an extra pinch of bitter and a tad fouler tasting. A glimpse of looming death saved us, and miraculously we've made it past what seemed at times to be an unmovable feast. Honestly, I'm so much happier now with Mitch back in my life.

     Yes, all my atheistic prayers were answered, and as I learned to say during our five-year twin hiatus, "I'm not alone, I'm by myself!" and "Yay, it's going to be another great day!"