Donna Snyder

 Donna Snyder lives and writes in the borderlands of Mexico and the United States. She founded the Tumblewords Project in 1995 and organizes its free events in El Paso, Texas. She has published three poetry collections, and her poetry and prose have appeared in journals and anthologies. An animal lover, she adopts both from the shelter and the streets. She has a particular affection for the elderly and ailing dogs.
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When her Twin Died

When her twin died, Tina lost her bearing. The sisters had never been apart. They slept together like friendly lovers. Cleaned each other’s face and ears, behind the neck. Frida never even had to speak, for Tina heard her thoughts. They played together in their dreams each night, running under the desert sun. Their hair the color of a fawn. Their bellies and feet, precious and pink. Their little hands in little white gloves.

Frida made up games for just the two of them. Tina was the athlete. The warrior. The beauty of the family. The sweetness. Indomitable. Frida, the artist. The invalid. The intrepid one. The creative. She worshipped fire. She feared no one. Together they were the Amazon princessas.

Inseparable. Invisibly conjoined. So when Frida died, she became Tina’s phantom appendage. The agony of amputation without the blood. And Tina was lost.

She wandered from room to room, hoping to find a trace of Frida’s scent. That odor, slightly funky, completely intoxicating. But Frida was gone. She left none of her smell to comfort. None of her kisses. No chaste caresses.

The day after Frida died, Tina woke up old. She didn’t want to eat or drink. She refused to use the toilet or bathe. Her eyes, twin oceans of confusion and despair. What was this thing, “alone”? Why did her chest feel as if something had been carved out of it, leaving a bloody crater. No food could comfort. No special treat. No proffered embrace. She still felt her sister’s presence, a vestigial self, missing but so real. She was inconsolate.

Sometimes she would look in the mirror, see Frida’s face. Sometimes Frida would visit in dreams filled with happiness and sunshine. In the mornings, as Tina began to wake from sleep, the memory of her loss engulfed her. Without volition, a long and low howl would escape from her chest.
This new world. So sad and lonely.

Nobody’s sister.

Nobody’s twin.

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