The language of twins

At the click of the back door, a parade of bare feet pitter-patters on wood floor as they round the corner wielding spatulas like swords. Luke trips and it’s Wyatt who cries, but then one is pushing the other out of the way to get to me.

I don’t know that I’m supposed to feel this way, but one without the other feels incomplete. As much as Wyatt is Wyatt and Luke is Luke, they are also two halves of a whole.

It’s undeniable in the way they gravitate toward each other even when playing separately. It’s in the way they clasp hands in their highchairs, in their babbling across cribs, in the way one is always following the other.

I can’t give 100% of myself to them, always having to choose who needs me more in that moment.

But I gave them each other.

Their bond began here:


And their language is one I’m not meant to fully understand.

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