Immortality.

What is it exactly?

Immutable, immaterial, immanent, impermanent, invincible, and so forth; these words carry meanings of an opposite to another.

But which side is the reflection, and which is the real?

How does one differentiate?

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I think it fitting we start with a garden. It belongs to one Mrs. Ili and playing it in now was her daughter, darling Nivin. She loved the world as much as one could love it at seven and a half years old. Even now, as pumpkins, melons, trouter-halves, and lemons jumped and squawked, Nivin could do no wrong and delighted in seeing her buddies grow so, dreaming of one day eating them and planting their children, to repeat the cycle once more. The girl thought it an honor for them to be eaten so, as no other path existed for them save the rot, and no one wanted the rot, not even the rot.

The bees and squawks joined together sometimes as they try their best to avoid the irksome loaf child lumbering about. The nectar of the gods flowed freely for once, as the gods were much too tired today, and would much prefer to hide and yawn, shirking responsibilities much like a child does every now and then. The honey made tasted like yams if they were sweet, so not a taste anyone could forget, but not exactly a taste one would care to remember either.

It would be wise if Mrs. Ili paid better attention to her child, but she couldn’t even remember what time it was as she sought the knot to tie down her broth, brubbling and threatening rent as though it paid but a tenth. But of course, cause came anyway, bounding and skinning its knee, which caught Nivin by her eye as she turned around and watched patiently for time to move on.

“This is me.” Fate spoke even as it left, a little-ling much like him if it was Nivin, black and white as though it was living.

“I am you, Nivin, if you supposed me living. We could switch and no-one would know, doo-be-li-doo.”

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“I am you?” She asked, rasped. “I thought we couldn’t be twins if weren’t of blood. Daddy couldn’t have been lying, did he?”

‘He did not’, thought the living that could be Nivin. “I am not certain, but certainly it could be true. Adults lie and cheat as they always do. Now I’m not a cheater, nor am I a liar, and I promise, two, that I shall never be a liar and never be a friar.” Coincidentally, a friar walked past the road nearest to them all, unaware that he had lost a brother he never had.

“That sounds about right, I think.” Nivin thought, though thoughts come slowly when it came to these talks. “I don’t think Mama would mind if we played together some more, if you’re nice and kind and won’t be mean to me at all. What do you say, me-that’s-the-living?”

The he-that-could-be-Nivin pondered as he leaned back and back until his head touched the ground, his back in the shape of an ‘u’ the other way around. He scrummed and thrummed until finally he plunked, face flat on the dirt while his feet took their time getting down from the ground into the earth. It made for an amusing sight as the boy turned garden gnome turned around as though dirt was air and stepped off his self-imposed burial site. He thought long and hard until his mind gave him an idea he could share with Nivin.

“I can be nice, if you’ll play nice with me at my place, for once. There will be candy, and food, and other-me’s that we can play with together forever. It’s not far, I promise. We will simply walk until I tell you to stop. Then the rest will come before you know it.” A small part of Nivin, which had guarded humanity against all manners of dangers and forever cautious, took alarm at such an offer and alerted the girl appropriately, her hesitance apparent as her arms clung to herself with shivers traveling up and onto her shoulders and everywhere else. ‘It’s dangerous.’ Her mind spoke as she watched her mother, close enough to see but not to touch. ‘What would Mama say if we go off with a strange little boy? She might get sad.’

As she processed things, the boy-of-a-Nivin stepped into her line-of-sight, his head tilted as he tried to match Nivin’ peculiar posture whenever she had to mind something particularly difficult in her life. Their eyes met and words were spoken silently, one at a time. Slowly, the boy stepped through a yawning that appeared as needed, his face contorting in what should be an excruciating experience, and yet no sound could be heard save for his breath, which went calmly as a summer’s breeze.

The name Nivin, borne by her for now, saw fit to think that she should never tell about this to anyone, and so walked back towards her own house, where she knew her mother would be baking cookies for her upcoming birthday party this weekend. Perhaps not now, not exactly this moment, but she knew Mrs. Ili loved her daughter. She loved her mother as well, and figured no strange boy could ever make her heart waver on deciding to stay here in the moment, cherished and safe, where none can threaten her and all treated well.

And it was the case eighty-two years ago. What has changed since then?