sandy & hope

Sandy's in the sand, futzing with the sand, forming it into high rise sand buildings. Hope's not in the sand; she's in the parking lot, smoking a menthol cigarette, balancing her flip-flop between her toes, demurring to two boys.

I'm watching them through a pair of wide-angle binoculars.

 

This isn't something I make a habit of, spying on Sandy and Hope as they do what they do under the blazing blue sky and rotund July sunlight.

I am their father, but not their dad. They have met me, but do not know me. We are strangers comprised of the same blood.

Sandy and Hope are twins, but you'd never know it from looking at them.

Hope is tall and thin as the blade of a very sharp knife. She cuts through life like one, too, going right for the veins of everyone she meets and everything she does. She is not pure.

Sandy's shape and size are fruitless, indistinct. Her looks are dour, almost poisonous, but lacking any real venom. She keeps to herself, mainly, and breaks her silence only when there's a threat, perceived or real. And then her voice cracks from disuse. I've heard her yell, jaggedly, twice today, at nobody in particular.

I see nothing of myself in either of them. Yet I can't stop watching. They are me no matter what.