My earliest memory? That's easy. I am lying flat on my back on a cold, white sheet, yowling at the top of my lungs as I peer through two sets of vertical bars at my brother. He is yowling, too. In time, our poor frazzled mother eventually lifts me out of my crib and tries to comfort me but to no avail.
"Twins..." she sighs. "Why did you have to be twins?"
Peace and quiet definitely do not settle in till she eventually puts me down in my brother's crib. That's when he and I both stop yowling, gurgle quietly, discover each others warmth, and promptly doze off.
From that day on, we always slept in the same bed.
Sometimes, I wonder if I truly remember that moment, or simply recall Mom retelling the story again and again over the years. No, I'm pretty sure that I do recall it, though I can't pinpoint the night it happened. I still wonder how old we were at the time. I suppose it doesn't matter in the universal scheme of things, but for me, the night that I first slept with my brother was the real beginning of my life. Back in those days, before in vitro fertilization became commonplace, natural twins like us (not scientifically engineered ones) were truly something special. A phenomenon. The stuff of legend.
For most kids, I suspect summer is their favorite time of the year. For us, it certainly was. And the best part of summer was that it always ended with a trip to the State Fair. I remember that Mom always bought us pink cotton candy—but only one stick to be shared between us, so as not to spoil our supper. While Dad spent the day at the livestock pavilions, she would drag us through all the exhibits of interest to her—but I will say this: She always saved the best till last. The Midway. The magical Midway. I remember she always hurried us past the girlie shows and the performing freaks but allowed us to spend as much time as we wanted in The Psychedelic Fun House—that is, until the summer we humiliated her.
We must have been eight or nine the summer we discovered the wonders of The Psychedelic Fun House. Mesmerized by the great, tall mirrors, my brother and I scrutinized each other's reflection. Then, with screeching giggles, we would take a step to one side and watch ourselves expand, grow fat, and then explode into nothingness. But the most fascinating trick, we soon discovered, was to take a step forward and watch ourselves grow tall.
"Do you think we'll ever be that tall?" I asked my brother.
"Someday," he replied. "When we're old, like Mom and Dad."
I leaned closer to him and whispered conspiratorially, "Do you think everything about us will ever grow that tall?"
Clark giggled. He knew exactly what I was talking about.
"You want to find out?" I asked.
"You want to?"
"I will if you will."
