Semblance

In fifty years, we will be sailing along in a leaky dory, paper thin sails luffing in irons, yelling to our grandkids, or to the neighbors’ kids, or hell, to any kid that will listen, we will be yelling due to hearing loss due to wind in the ears for years on end. We will be yelling the story of our life, how we met in New York as sophisticated and philosophic 20 year olds, learned at 22 how little we knew, and at 24 sealed our fate by buying a boat. At this point, a grandkid will yawn in the salty ocean breeze, stretch out his legs across the old silvery teak cockpit, and wonder if it was granny or gramps that just spoke. Because I am absolutely convinced that no one will be able to tell us apart. Leathery skin, thinning hair, over the nautical flag belt buckle paunch, we will be identical! And we will tell the same stories, eat the same Little Debbie snack cakes, and laugh at the same old and worn jokes. I think even our sea salt stained voices will sound the same.
“Hey, amigo, buy your sister a drink!” a barker in front of a bar in Mexico yelled to us as we walked down a Tijuana calle several years ago. We hadn’t noticed the resemblance, and giggled, a bit embarrassed, but relieved that the next guy yelled over to J to bring his ladyfriend in for a tequila body shot. (No gracias) Over and over through the years, especially with jobs on yachts, we are asked, “So, are you, um, like, related?" Pause as J and I smile politely and chuckle. "Or dating?” This always seems to me a humorously twisted line of questioning. But we answer with a brief synopsis of our history, fill in the blank the amount of years, try to move on to the next subject as the slightly inebriated guest comments on our resemblance for the rest of the evening. "I coulda sworn.."
Sometimes I look over at J and wonder who he is. And sometimes I look over at J and I see myself. Not that I see certain qualities of myself in J, although we do share some; I actually feel as if I am looking at myself. And it is startling when I notice that I am sitting on the other side of the cockpit, not where J is stretching out, smiling over at me. It is an odd sensation, but not entirely unpleasant. And considering we spend the vast majority of our time with each other in a relatively confined space, it’s not the worst sensation I could have. But it is still odd, and startling, and beautiful, and I think that when we’re on our last tack far down the road, there are worse people to look like, to act like, to be.
Even if we are mistook for inseparably sentimental old siblings.