I’ve tried to think about it, you know.
My mind has wondered over our childhood as I have tried to figure out what makes you and I so different.
Logically, I know that every person is different from the next but… well, shouldn’t you and I be at least a little more similar?
But the differences have been there for as long as I remember. And I’m not sure why. Did it start the moment you were born? In those first few seconds, did you hear things that I didn’t hear when I was first born? Did you see things I didn’t see? Were you held differently than I had been?
How about when you learned how to crawl? Did you feel the ground differently than I did? Were you distracted by the two and a half year old older sister on her hands and knees in front of you, talking nonsense and thinking she was helping you move forward? And when she was four, was she too protective? When she was seven, was she too bossy? And when did you decide you wanted to be anything but what she was?
And what color is the world when you look at it? Is it orange or green? Or purple or red? Because I saw yellow and now blue. Is that what makes us different? Or when you look at a glass, have you always seen it as half full when I’ve insisted it’s half empty?
And when you look at our parents, do you see people that I don’t see? Are they different, even drastically different, for me than they are for you?
And when you look at your friends, what do you see? Have you ever seen people like I do? When someone first hurt you, what did you do? Did you cower and try to figure out what you did wrong? Or did you brush it off, not giving it a second thought?
I can see us in our bedroom, making up a routine to a song we didn’t understand. I can see us arguing about who had to sleep in the top bunk. I can see a line down the middle of the room when we weren’t getting along. I can see us on the window seat as our mom read us Bible stories. And for the first seven years of your life, we lived in the same room. We breathed the same air. We heard the same sounds, saw the same things.
And yet, I think you heard things differently. I think our eyes saw the same things but our brain received the messages differently.
Now I look at you and, suddenly, I don’t know… I don’t know who you are. I don’t know where you came from or how we got here. I’m at a loss for words and you’re the one who should be. Because I think we’re the same. But you see red.
And I see blue.