We Could Be Rats

by Emily R. Austin

At the time, I had no idea how few days like that we get. When you’re a kid, you assume you’re just getting a taste for all the memorable experiences life has in store for you, but the truth is, most people don’t spend countless nights running through the streets with their friends. They spend a handful of nights doing that if they’re lucky.

Sometimes, I worried I hated you. I want you to know now I didn’t. While I found your recent political and social behavior morally abhorrent, I loved you. I died thinking of you sticking Band-Aids to my baby knees. I know that you contained multitudes.

The problem is, I think one of the benefits of growing up with a sibling is having a witness. It’s nice to have someone to cross-reference your childhood with.

If Greta were my doll, I wouldn’t play that her life turned out how it has. I’d brush her hair and start over. I’d brush my own hair and start over. I’d do things differently. I’d make things better.

There is this magnetism between queer kids. It’s a weird phenomenon; we find each other even before we realize we’re queer.

I used to joke, “I wish we were rats” because, if I could choose how the world worked, we would all be rats at a fair. We would all live well, sampling every possible ounce of happiness. We would roll around in garbage and suck on sour keys.