The engine rumbles like how I imagine a real grandfather’s laugh sounds. The window is open, and cool air whips my face as if driven by the wings of geese rowing through the cloudless, watercolor sky. It smells like December, like snowflakes collapsing, like rug-burning carpets, like puddles of snow on the stairs. I sit in my car seat, a ravine of Cheerios separating me from Tasha. She is my twin in everything but eyes and hair color. We share a love of ballet, Barbie, and chicken nuggets. We were both in the bathroom when the door got stuck on the first night of Hanukkah and had to wait for hours until my mom rescued us.

My uncle drives, joking around as we beg for more stories of Super Dog and Wonder Cat, and my mom fiddles with the radio. Her curly hair is so much more controlled than my tangles, the blush of her cheeks could stain the graying snow for days, and her gold ring glints like an icicle on her delicate pinky, whose nail is chewed like mine. She scolds Uncle Michael when he says something sarcastic. Back then I had no idea that her humor was much more biting and clever than his.

They are alike in some ways, my uncle and mom. They share shortness and hair type, coloring and sense of humor. My uncle is more laid back, like me, and my mom worries more, like my cousin. While my uncle can be seen as nerdy, my mom has combined her brains with her heart to create a carefree elegance that only glitches at night, when we lie on her bed with the dog beneath the covers and my sister downstairs.

She is beautiful in her own angular, tired way, but I did not realize that then. I did not realize a lot of things, actually. My mom and only my mom, she as a person never crossed my mind. Just like any other child, her world seemed to be of my world, and mine revolved around me. Kids are shallow people, and I had yet to learn how to spell, much less know to contemplate what part my parents played in the great scheme of things. I know now.

I know that she used to be a child, a teenager, and that now she is readying herself for the transition from middle-aged to older adult. I know that she likes being in shape but always remembers what her grandmother said about keeping a little fat on you, just in case. I know that I, her first, was born later in her life because she wanted to focus on her career before children. I know that she worked with the FBI, and that she quit when it got too risky. I know that she likes the color yellow, hates sunflowers, and rarely eats a whole sandwich. She enjoys the heat but adores the snow just as much. She may not believe in God, but she believes in something, or someone. I know that she believes in her daughters, in my sister and her confusion, in my step-dad and his laugh, in the world and its conflicting nature. I know that she believes in my abilities, my heart, and my mind. And now we are back to me.