He is writing now, his ghostly hand within mine. And when he speaks, I hear his murmuring in my voice. Sometimes I want to confront him, my vestigal twin, and ask him who he is. But from what angle might I see him, he who is also me? How can I turn so as to meet what also gives me the power to turn? In the end, I have to look for him in my own face.
But what mirror will show him? I wonder whether writing is the mirror in which he seeks to find me, and that I will see beneath this page, as a body that passes beneath a frozen river. But his drowning is my life, and my living is his drowning; we are joined but we are divided by time.
‘Is that me in the mirror?’ – ‘It is and it is not’ – ‘Is it me?’ – You cannot see what allows you to see’.
‘Who are you?’, I ask, and though he does not answer, the corners of his mouth turn upwards.
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