Carbon Copy Laid To Rest

20250421

Prompt from DailyPrompt.com

Grandad’s funeral was surreal. I’d never been able to tell him and Paul apart.
It must be strange to see your twin in a coffin. It was strange enough for me, looking at Grandad lying peaceful and then glancing about to see him sitting on the other side of the room. It didn’t help they were in identical suits, the ones they wore to every formal function. Dour charcoal cotton in an old-fashioned cut. Those outfits were probably older than me.
I was glad Granny’s already dead. I mean, she could always tell them apart, but this would surely still hurt, right? Seeing someone almost your husband alive and well at your husband’s funeral?
Or… maybe she’d find it a comfort. I don’t know. I can’t even imagine.
I look back at Paul. He’s just staring blankly at Grandad, eyes dry and brow slightly furrowed. Like he can’t wrap his head around it. Like Grandad might sit up and laugh at any moment.
They were such jokers. I mean, Grandad was. I’m sure Paul will go back to it. I really hope he does.
One of the few memories I have of him (that is, where I’m sure it was Paul and not Grandad) is when I was six. He walked up, finger pointing, and solemnly declared “Your shoes are untied!”
Much later I found out what’s meant to happen is that you look down to check your laces, and he tweaks your nose. Harmless. Like all their pranks were.
But my parents had recently gotten exasperated with my clinging to velcro shoes and had insisted I get ‘proper’ shoes. And since then my life had been filled with laces coming undone and having to ask people for help and getting scolded.
So, humiliated, I burst into tears. Which shocked and confused Paul; we didn’t see him anything like as often as Grandad, so he was unaware of the shoe drama.
He comforted me, and listened to my childish woe. Then he took me by the hand and led me to one of the bookshelves, which was full of books I’d ignored as boring. And he showed me a book on knots. It had a simpler shoelace knot! Rather than having to wrap unstable tangly coils around my thumb, he showed me to make two bunny ears and do a double-wrapped square knot with them.
Easy. Simple. Secure. Even for a child of six with clumsy fingers. And entirely respectable and grown-up, because Paul told me that’s how he tied his shoelaces, and had for years, even when he was at work.
As everyone stands and shuffles towards the door I look down at my smart leather shoes. Tied with that same knot. I wonder if Paul remembers.
Probably not. Why would he? And this isn’t the place to ask.
“Riley.” Paul and Grandad even sounded alike. It’s so surreal.
His eyes crinkle. His wrinkled shaky finger extends. “Your shoes are untied.”
I’m sure somewhere Grandad laughed with me.

Prompt was “Write a story with the key elements ‘coffin’, ‘shoelace’, and ‘indistinguishable’.”