Minefields Everywhere

Today's: Target.

I walked in and there was a Muslim woman with tiny twin babies in a stroller.

I stood in line at the register and behind me a small boy with white blonde hair threw a temper tantrum so impressive that his gentle and serene mother calmly scooped him up and left, abandoning her items without a backward glance.

I went to the return counter on the way out and there were twin African American boys, one of them roaming around the waiting space and vocalizing strenuously while his brother hid behind a row of shopping carts and peeked out with a shy grin.

All colors, all energy levels.

I felt the loss when my small blonde boys grew into tall buzz-headed young men.

I used to think that the death of a twin would be at the outer limits of the rim of unbearable for his or her brother or sister. I'm not sure that I ever took into account what it might be like to be the mother of twins, one gone. Exactly on the rim.