Carol

The afternoon of the funeral for your identical twin, Gary, his wife Carol clung to you. Her white-knuckled grip on your lapels still bore the scars of the windshield shards she received while covering her face during the accident days prior. Her eyes were heavy with shared grief and a longing you both felt. Each of you represented a piece of the person you’d lost. As family and friends departed and the reception drew to a close, you found each other in the waning light of day peeking through the curtains of her bedroom. She called his name, and yours in turn as the mutual escape from grief hit its crescendo, binding you both more inexorably than either of you knew in the moment. In the morning, somehow, miraculously, it wasn’t awkward in the least. You spent the day together, breakfast, a long and quiet drive up the coast, dinner and cocktails by moonlight. Memories were shared, as well as tears and laughter. A few weeks disappeared in this haze of coping, bonding, and toasting to cherished moments. The first time you needed to part for a few hours came when Carol had a doctor’s appointment. That afternoon, her energy at lunch was different, tentative and rather strained. Finally, Carol opened up and revealed why she needed to see the doctor. “Honey…I’m late.” She gently pushed aside the champagne flute at her place setting. “I mean, LATE late.”