Three of Us

There were three of us. Me and  my twin sister, Karen. And Josie, our older sister. She is older by almost two years. But the distance between twins and their siblings can be vast.

Karen and I had our own language. Sometimes we communicated without words. We liked the same games, the same colours and the same food. We are not identical twins, but it felt like we were the same. 

When we were together, no one else existed. Not even Josie. 

Once, when I was ten years old, Karen, Josie and I were playing Chapada. Chapada is a Peruvian children’s game, like tag. One person chases the others and when you catch one, it’s their turn to chase.

We were on the patio of a house my parents were renting. We had sold our house too quickly and needed somewhere to stay. My parents found this one, but it was in a dangerous part of Lima, Peru.

The patio had a concrete floor and high walls. This kept us isolated, but safe from anything outside; it became our play area. I felt small in the humongous grey space.

That morning, there was a stool in the middle of the patio, where my mother placed a bowl with two whole artichokes and another one with homemade dressing. The artichokes were green and hot. Mom had just taken them out of the pressure cooker.  She loved that pressure cooker!

Karen and I were strange children. We loved vegetables. Artichokes with dip was our favorite snack. We ate them like chips.

Each time we were near the bowl, we stopped playing, plucked out an artichoke leaf, dipped it in the dressing, ate the pulp, dropped the rest next to the bowl, and continued playing. 

Yum, delicious.

The smell kept distracting me. I was imagining eating artichoke when Karen touched my arm and said, “You’re it!”

Adrenaline filled me. My heart seemed to sing in harmony with my legs as I ran after my twin sister with the strength and physical drama only a child can summon.

I turned for a moment and saw Josie’s face. I will always remember her expression and the feeling in my heart.

It was as if she was staring at a painting, looking for herself—and realizing she wasn’t there. And she could only stare at the scene where she was not painted in—forgotten.

I didn’t run to her, nor did I say anything. I kept running towards Karen. 

It took years before Josie and I grew close. I moved to a different continent, saw my sisters grow into women from far away.  

Now I was outside the painting. 

But the ups and downs of life brought us closer. As sometimes can happen if you are lucky.

With every trip back home, every letter and Whatsapp message we slowly found our way back to each other. 

No longer three. But as one.