De ville ikke fortælle mig hvad det var der

var sket. Jeg matte nøjes med de

brudstykker som jeg havde opsnappet fra

deres utydelige hvisken, og sammenstille

dem med min egen tågede hukommelse:

Engang da mor havde bøjet sig ind over

barnevognen, var en tung hvid sten faldet

fra hendes hjerte og havde dræbt min

tvilling. Men på grund af en forveksling

troede de at det var mig der var død,

derfor fik jeg tvillingens navn i stedet for mit

eget som jeg har glemt og som ingen vil

oplyse mig om, de nægter og ryster på

hovedet hvis jeg spørger til tvillingen. Så

det er jeg holdt op med. Det hører til den

slags man ikke taler om.

They wouldn't tell me what it was that had

happened. I had to make do with the

fragments that I had caught from their

mumbled whispering, and put them

together with my own foggy memory: Once

when mom had leaned over the baby

carriage, a heavy white stone had fallen

from her heart and had killed my twin. But

because of a mix up they believed that I

was the one who was dead, therefore I

received my twin's name instead of my own

which I have forgotten and which no one will

tell me, they refuse and shake their heads if

I ask about the twin. So I have stopped. It is

one of those things that you don't talk

about.