I wept the day I learned I could keep her eyes. The pain of her leaving is a splinter I rub and worry at, without removing. In the darkness, I am at home with that pain. I will never again wear her rose colored glasses, but then, neither will she. Neither will she. In my more sullen moments, I am glad of that.
I am her dark twin. Serious. Annoyed, always annoyed. Although we were "identical" (I bitterly laugh at the suggestion), I weighed more, dieted more, then ate more during feasts of depression. I see the worst in the world. But, my beautiful, loving, loved, sister Sara...
Sometimes I hated her.
In the harsh world of sun-swallowing glass and cement that is New York City, she saw beauty. She fed bums Big Macs and laughed at anyone who chastised her for wasting money. She bought flowers from slick-smiling street-corner vendors and gave them to the parking attendant to keep in the dingy corner of his small, greasy booth. She let her smile grace everyone on the street, from Gus in the hotdog stand to Sam-the-man, shoeshine artist.
Until my most secret wish came true. The person I wanted to BE was gone and I was free to wear her cheery disposition. Free. And yet suddenly, fiercely nauseated by her feebleness, I wanted nothing less.
I wake with breath nearly as bad as my disposition. And fangs. And claws. It's best for everyone if I sleep late, so I've engineered my working hours later in the day than most. But that morning, I had a train to catch. I felt my way down the hall, as blind to the world around me as an incumbent politician. I found the bathroom and what I thought was my eye case. I opened the headgear, put it on, and let it install the cybernetic organics that allow me to see.
After my double-vision cleared, I remember thinking I'd lost weight, since my embarrassing nakedness looked less stout in the full-length mirror. The fatty saddlebags that are prone to sprout on my thighs seemed insignificant. So, instead of my usual hide-the-bulge skirt and sweater outfit, I wore the slim pantsuit I save for my skinnier days. I repacked my suitcase, and privately patted myself on the back for sticking to my latest diet. Riding the high, I threw in running shorts and shoes, although I knew I wouldn't really take the time to run. Running hurts too much.
It wasn't until I was on the train, humming noisily at the passing fence posts, that I realized what must have happened. I was acting like Sara. I, JoAnne Deluca Smalling, had greeted -- cheerily greeted -- the five dark-suited men sharing my compartment. I was humming. HUMMING. God, I thought, it's brilliant out. It's as though I were seeing the world through Sara's eyes.
They shouldn't have worked. All I can figure is that as twins, we were near enough alike.
My sin, the thing that keeps me comfortably wrapped in warm guilt, is that I didn't call. I didn't say, Sara, does the world look darker? Do you see the flaws and the misery around every corner? Is the glass half empty? No. I enjoyed my stolen gift, my rose colored glasses. For an entire month, I laughed along the streets of Chicago, happy to see the other side of the coin, the shiny side. I did go running.
On my way to the train that would take me home, I couldn't even muster a meaty depression over the idea that I'd soon have my own eyes back. Instead, I waved at a meter-maid getting ready to write parking tickets to a long line of cars, and then I dropped quarters in each meter as I passed it, giving them an extra 15 minutes. I giggled to myself. The sun sparkled in my eyes.
Oh God, and then home. Home to a family beside itself with grief. At the time, I was sure the only thing that got me through Sara's suicide was her bright vision of the world.
The world has turned against me, she had written. She never understood what she lived with that one month was the world seen through my eyes -- my dark, almost hopeless existence.
I know now it was my own hardened shell that got me through that difficult time. My most private self was smiling in memory of sunny, brilliant Chicago; smiling at my fortitude. My face, mouth pinched down at the corners as it is wont to do, convinced everyone I was mourning. The part of me that loved Sara helped me cry.
I haven't worn her eyes since. They're in my room, in the top drawer of the dresser on which stands a picture of the two of us -- her arm is behind me making rabbit ears in back of my head, and her eyes glisten with laughter. The picture helps me remember my two selves.
I wear my own eyes, GENeered from my body, for my body. I take a certain hard-edged pride in the strength of my endurance. And, as a tribute to Sara, I make the effort, every day, to see the world as she did.
My lenses must be wearing thin. Sometimes, the sun shines through.
I am her dark twin. Serious. Annoyed, always annoyed. Although we were "identical" (I bitterly laugh at the suggestion), I weighed more, dieted more, then ate more during feasts of depression. I see the worst in the world. But, my beautiful, loving, loved, sister Sara...
Sometimes I hated her.
In the harsh world of sun-swallowing glass and cement that is New York City, she saw beauty. She fed bums Big Macs and laughed at anyone who chastised her for wasting money. She bought flowers from slick-smiling street-corner vendors and gave them to the parking attendant to keep in the dingy corner of his small, greasy booth. She let her smile grace everyone on the street, from Gus in the hotdog stand to Sam-the-man, shoeshine artist.
Until my most secret wish came true. The person I wanted to BE was gone and I was free to wear her cheery disposition. Free. And yet suddenly, fiercely nauseated by her feebleness, I wanted nothing less.
I wake with breath nearly as bad as my disposition. And fangs. And claws. It's best for everyone if I sleep late, so I've engineered my working hours later in the day than most. But that morning, I had a train to catch. I felt my way down the hall, as blind to the world around me as an incumbent politician. I found the bathroom and what I thought was my eye case. I opened the headgear, put it on, and let it install the cybernetic organics that allow me to see.
After my double-vision cleared, I remember thinking I'd lost weight, since my embarrassing nakedness looked less stout in the full-length mirror. The fatty saddlebags that are prone to sprout on my thighs seemed insignificant. So, instead of my usual hide-the-bulge skirt and sweater outfit, I wore the slim pantsuit I save for my skinnier days. I repacked my suitcase, and privately patted myself on the back for sticking to my latest diet. Riding the high, I threw in running shorts and shoes, although I knew I wouldn't really take the time to run. Running hurts too much.
It wasn't until I was on the train, humming noisily at the passing fence posts, that I realized what must have happened. I was acting like Sara. I, JoAnne Deluca Smalling, had greeted -- cheerily greeted -- the five dark-suited men sharing my compartment. I was humming. HUMMING. God, I thought, it's brilliant out. It's as though I were seeing the world through Sara's eyes.
They shouldn't have worked. All I can figure is that as twins, we were near enough alike.
My sin, the thing that keeps me comfortably wrapped in warm guilt, is that I didn't call. I didn't say, Sara, does the world look darker? Do you see the flaws and the misery around every corner? Is the glass half empty? No. I enjoyed my stolen gift, my rose colored glasses. For an entire month, I laughed along the streets of Chicago, happy to see the other side of the coin, the shiny side. I did go running.
On my way to the train that would take me home, I couldn't even muster a meaty depression over the idea that I'd soon have my own eyes back. Instead, I waved at a meter-maid getting ready to write parking tickets to a long line of cars, and then I dropped quarters in each meter as I passed it, giving them an extra 15 minutes. I giggled to myself. The sun sparkled in my eyes.
Oh God, and then home. Home to a family beside itself with grief. At the time, I was sure the only thing that got me through Sara's suicide was her bright vision of the world.
The world has turned against me, she had written. She never understood what she lived with that one month was the world seen through my eyes -- my dark, almost hopeless existence.
I know now it was my own hardened shell that got me through that difficult time. My most private self was smiling in memory of sunny, brilliant Chicago; smiling at my fortitude. My face, mouth pinched down at the corners as it is wont to do, convinced everyone I was mourning. The part of me that loved Sara helped me cry.
I haven't worn her eyes since. They're in my room, in the top drawer of the dresser on which stands a picture of the two of us -- her arm is behind me making rabbit ears in back of my head, and her eyes glisten with laughter. The picture helps me remember my two selves.
I wear my own eyes, GENeered from my body, for my body. I take a certain hard-edged pride in the strength of my endurance. And, as a tribute to Sara, I make the effort, every day, to see the world as she did.
My lenses must be wearing thin. Sometimes, the sun shines through.
