Birds of a Feather

Marnie always knew she would outlive her brother. An odd sentiment for any sister to have, let alone a twin. Yet, despite this deviation in familial solidarity, there had never been a time when she did not have the distinct notion of her brother living to a ripe old age in tandem with her.

In fact, her first remembrance of this idea came when she was six years old. She and her brother had been climbing a tree in the yard and, like always, Brad had pushed the limits and climbed too high. He had fallen and landed with a resounding thud. And as she stood there over his prone body during that ceaseless eternity of a moment before she cried out for their mother, she had been struck with the distinct idea of death and the separation between the two of them. At such a young age this concept was yet wordless but no less palpable. The juxtaposition between the green lushness of the spring grass and her brother’s too pale and unmoving body had shaken her youthful perception of the world.

Brad had only broken his arm that time but there were many more trips to doctors and hospitals in his future. Those moments of stillness that he exhibited during childhood injuries were some of the only times that Marnie remembered her brother staying in one place. He was evermoving and full of a kinetic fervor that led to his familial nickname: Hummbing-Brad. A moniker that he continually protested whenever it was used.

This movement that so defined her brother was something that Marnie herself did not gravitate towards. Where Brad was quick with his movements and decision-making, Marnie was cool and calculated. Why rush into a situation or decision when you didn’t have all the details? Why take risks where safety was an option? Why make a scene when you could watch from the peripheries and lead a life of distant observation? These were the dichotomies that presided over the twins. Always a matter of opposites.

Marnie never resented her brother for the attention he garnered though. Mainly for the fact that he never sought the attention but rather, all of his actions seemed to be motivated by the desire to avoid it and move away from the gravity of the family. The two of them, for all their opposite qualities, did love each other. Marnie would never have presumed to tell people that she and Brad were inseparable or had a secret language and understanding all their own. That would have been a lie on her tongue. No, there existed between them an ordinary closeness of siblings.

Through all their turbulent teenage years they had cultivated their own distinctly separate friend groups. Brad was a gifted athlete who refused to participate in team sports but could be persuaded to swim competitively, at least until he found a skateboard at a secondhand store in town one afternoon. Many of the injuries he incurred were courtesy of that board. Accordingly, he hung out with other boys who frequented parking lots on skateboards or ones who lived on the fringes of the accepted norms; artists, musicians, malcontents. Essentially, Brad was the type of teenager who a peevish auntie in the mall would notice immediately and complain about.

Marnie by contrast was tame. She concentrated on her classes and was part of several academic clubs, although never debate. She simply could not think with the confrontation looming. She had friends who many would think of as nerds and bookworms. Marnie could not even recall a time when she knowingly attended a party in high school where alcohol would be present. She was the proverbial “good girl.”

Despite this divide in social aspects, Marnie and Brad liked one another and would elect to spend time together. Their favorite place to hang out was in the attic of the family home they were raised in. After generations of expansion in the old farm home, the attic was still the most removed and quiet of rooms. The only other place that could have been a contender for their “spot” was the old hay barn out behind the house. If it had been closer it would have been the preferred locale but during the winter the walk across the snowy field to the cold barn, full of who knows what animals, was not an experience either was willing to go through for some quiet. No, the attic was the superior choice. In the winter it was small enough to be cozy with a space heater attached to a long extension cord and mugs of steaming cocoa. In the summer they could take refuge from the heat by slipping out the window onto one of the roofs of the gabled old house, lemonades in hand.

Now, as Marnie moved through that same house again, surrounded by family and friends in somber colors who spoke in hushed tones, she remembered this small refuge. Breaking away from the deafeningly quiet throng of mourners, she slipped up the stairs, down a hall, and opened the discreet door that led to the attic. She was aware of how large the space was now that she was the sole occupant.

In the center of the room, looking as if it had been rummaged through hastily, was a box of photographs. Marnie peeked into the box and found it full of childhood photos. Brad and Marnie were smiling up at her as infants and toddlers. One was of her standing proudly on stage holding the spelling bee trophy from when she was in seventh grade. Another was of the family, together at Thanksgiving. So many memories contained within the thin sheets of paper and ink.

As she perused the photographs of family and herself and her brother, Marnie noticed an odd quirk. In so many of the photographs, Brad was a blurred streak, a face turning away, a child running out of frame before the timer had finished. She supposed she had never really paid it much attention before because there was always the chance of future pictures. With his constant movement as a child and young adult, the fact that he was never in focus or standing still long enough for a clear picture was not entirely a surprise.

Although, as she looked down at those blurs that were her brother, Marnie was struck once again by that feeling of having her worldview altered. She was no longer the scared child noticing for the first time that death and life were bookends to the universe and that her brother’s bookshelf would be far shorter than her own. She was now an adult woman seeing the patterns of the universe from a remoter place. Her brother always seemed to be moving fast, and away, and out of frame not just in the photographs, but in his life. He lived fast, took bold risks, and burned hot and bright. A picture could not capture him even for one moment, he had too much life to burn through. Marnie knew then that her unspoken idea that she would outlive her brother was not borne out of a morbid imagination, but part of her own innate understanding of what her brother was. So like the small bird that gave him his nickname; a bird that had to move quickly to consume the nectar of life and who could never abide inactivity.

With a sense of closure, Marnie turned her attention to the window and the roof beyond. One of the last times they had used it together had been on a summer evening like this one. He had been sitting, working something in his hands that crinkled, while she lay on her back watching the stars appear out of the twilight. She had asked him then about the gift he had given her after high school graduation. A single feather from one of the Barn Owls that lived around their house was left on her desk the night he left for Ney York City without saying goodbye, accompanied by a note that simply read “For my sister.”

As they sat on the roof years later she had asked him why that was his gift to her. His answer was slow in coming and spoken quietly, such a rarity for him that she knew it was carefully considered and therefore one of considerable importance.

“Well…” he began. “That is what I think of when I picture you. An owl.”

Marnie waited for him to elaborate and was rewarded.

“Owls are quiet creatures. They’re silent fliers, did you know? But that doesn’t mean they aren’t powerful. They sneak up on their prey and BAM, critters don’t see them coming. And when they do make noise? People notice, they listen. People respect owls. People respect you.”

He paused for a moment before finishing with an even quieter comment. “I just figured you needed a reminder that owls are more than quiet birds who live in old barns.”

Those spring and summer evenings sitting out above the rest of the house were some of her favorite times with her brother. That last time was no exception. She had always known that feather had held some significance, so she had kept it. She kept it on a corkboard above her bed when she went to college. She kept it when she moved into an apartment of her own, setting it on her dressing table in a place of honor. She had kept it all through grad school, sometimes twisting it in her fingers as she thought about what her next sentence would be while writing her thesis. She kept it as she moved through her life, quietly collecting experiences and accomplishments. She knew she would keep it safe and as a reminder of the faith her brother had in her. He had always seen through her quiet facade and known that a strong predator lay beyond.

As she sat on the roof once again, alone with these thoughts of death and life and the universe, she looked out into the night. Darkness had risen up out of the twilight hour. She could just make out the outline of the trees that lined the field and the barn beyond. The soft chatter of the voices from the mourning house below was drowned out by the summer sounds of the earth, crickets chirping, and the swishing of the tall grasses. Then, out of the velvety night, Marnie heard a soft screech of one of the resident Barn Owls followed by the telltale white flash against the black backdrop.