I think often about that closed casket, the specific decision our family made not to view remains that, we understand now, were never actually Vera’s at all — a detail investigators eventually confirmed belonged to someone else entirely, a still-unidentified individual whose own presence in that vehicle remains, even now, a separate, unresolved mystery investigators continue working to understand.
I don’t know if I’ll ever fully process the specific strangeness of having genuinely, completely grieved my sister’s death for a full decade, building an entire adult life around a loss that, it turns out, never actually happened in the way I’d believed. What I know, holding onto Vera now with a specific, hard-won gratitude I don’t think either of us will ever take for granted again, is that the wordless connection people always assumed twins simply possess turned out to be considerably more resilient than even ten years of profound, unknowing separation could ultimately destroy.
She still finishes my sentences sometimes, in exactly the way she always used to. I still know, without needing to ask, exactly when something is genuinely bothering her beneath whatever she’s actually saying out loud. Ten years apart, it turns out, wasn’t quite long enough to fully sever whatever specific, wordless thread had connected us since before either of us had any words at all.
