Miles away from our home, tucked near the fields of withering weeping willows and across the banks of the murky lake, Tucker’s droopy ears raised at the sound of the cargo train bringing goods to our small town. 

By eight, all was quiet here in Shaw. The clouds from earlier dispersed into the night sky, and with the curtains pulled back, the stars beamed at the chance to shine once more. The birds perched on the highest branch with eyes closed, and the ducks lined up in a row in the Swanee. 

Kids were asleep, fastened to their beds with covers decorated with cars and trains or unicorns and Barbies. Worn from work, whether out there or in the home, parents sprawled out in bed from exhaustion. 

While the world slept, I was awake at 3 A.M. Never lacking something to do, I’d seize the moment to be alone, awake, alive.

I was supposed to tidy up my room — well, our room, well, actually my side of the room. Ivy and I have been sharing spaces since the womb. Sixteen years later, and we still clashed and conflicted over our “irreconcilable differences”. You see, Ivy was the poster child for perfection; it extended beyond her personality and seeped into her looks. A true representation of who she was, the right side of the room was what my English teacher would call immaculate. 

No wrinkles on her sheets— they were stretched and straighter than a yardstick. 

No stains or spots on her plush rug — it was as good as new. 

No golden locks, make-up stains, or finger smudges on her white vanity. 

What about me? My left side was what my mother would call a disgrace. The wrinkles on the sheets created tumultuous waves, and the tiny cookie crumbs were like grains of sand. 

The stains of spaghetti or meatloaf (maybe gravy?) were a sign of a character. The rug had lived, it’s been used, and it hada story worth hearing. And my vanity, well, like everything else, it had clear signs of imperfections — whether it be from the rainbow forming from the powdery eye shadow, or the black smudges of eyeliner. Strands of my dirty blond hair hugged every crevice. 

As Ivy slept, I usually maneuvered around the room in silence with newfound freedom and space, without needing to evade her judgmental eyes.

But tonight, it was different. I wasn’t rubbing the stains from the rug like a crazed woman or blowing the hair off the vanity. I wasn’t shaking the crumbs off the sheet or flattening the wavy wrinkles. 

Instead, with tears pooling in my eyes, I was holding on to Ivy’s cold hands, watching as the clear tubes running in and out of her tried to breathe life into her frigid body. 

Gone was the touch of color, and gone was the smile only we knew — the one we shared when having a twin moment. 

I wasn’t cleaning my room at 3 am, but I wish I were because then it would mean this was any other day. And I would give anything to have today be any other day. 

Black Bonnet Girls is a reflective storytelling space rooted in softness, truth, and becoming. These pieces hold the quiet reckonings, cultural memory, and everyday moments that shape us as Black women—often in ways we don’t name until later. This space is for the overthinkers and the feel-it-all women, the ones still learning how to take up room without hardening. If these stories resonate, join me on YouTube for more BBG reflections, readings, and visual storytelling—where the words continue to breathe beyond the page.