Nineteen-month-old twins Locklyn and Loreli Callazzo had lived every moment of their short lives as if they were one heartbeat.
They slept side by side in the same small bed, their tiny bodies curled toward each other like two halves of a single soul.
They ate together, played together, followed one another from room to room, and refused to sit in separate seats even when adults gently tried to encourage them.
To them, togetherness wasn’t simply comfort — it was their entire way of being.
Their godmother, Dawn Lemons, had often said that they seemed to breathe in sync, laugh in sync, and even mischief together as if planned in whispers only the two of them understood.
“They just wanted to be together all the time,” she told PEOPLE.
“They didn’t know how to be apart.”
Nineteen-month-old twins Locklyn and Loreli Callazzo had lived every moment of their short lives as if they were one heartbeat.
They slept side by side in the same small bed, their tiny bodies curled toward each other like two halves of a single soul.
They ate together, played together, followed one another from room to room, and refused to sit in separate seats even when adults gently tried to encourage them.
To them, togetherness wasn’t simply comfort — it was their entire way of being.
Their godmother, Dawn Lemons, had often said that they seemed to breathe in sync, laugh in sync, and even mischief together as if planned in whispers only the two of them understood.
“They just wanted to be together all the time,” she told PEOPLE.
“They didn’t know how to be apart.”
Nineteen-month-old twins Locklyn and Loreli Callazzo had lived every moment of their short lives as if they were one heartbeat.
They slept side by side in the same small bed, their tiny bodies curled toward each other like two halves of a single soul.
They ate together, played together, followed one another from room to room, and refused to sit in separate seats even when adults gently tried to encourage them.
To them, togetherness wasn’t simply comfort — it was their entire way of being.
Their godmother, Dawn Lemons, had often said that they seemed to breathe in sync, laugh in sync, and even mischief together as if planned in whispers only the two of them understood.
“They just wanted to be together all the time,” she told PEOPLE.
“They didn’t know how to be apart.”
Nineteen-month-old twins Locklyn and Loreli Callazzo had lived every moment of their short lives as if they were one heartbeat.
They slept side by side in the same small bed, their tiny bodies curled toward each other like two halves of a single soul.
They ate together, played together, followed one another from room to room, and refused to sit in separate seats even when adults gently tried to encourage them.
To them, togetherness wasn’t simply comfort — it was their entire way of being.
Their godmother, Dawn Lemons, had often said that they seemed to breathe in sync, laugh in sync, and even mischief together as if planned in whispers only the two of them understood.
“They just wanted to be together all the time,” she told PEOPLE.
“They didn’t know how to be apart.”
Police arrived first.
They found Jenny at the back doorway, collapsed in anguish but forcing herself to be strong enough to hand over her children to the responders.
Officers immediately began performing CPR on both toddlers.
The front yard, the doorway, the quiet street — they became an emergency room.
Within minutes, fire department responders arrived and took over, working desperately, rhythmically, refusing to surrender even as the seconds stretched painfully long.
But the twins had no pulse.
They were not breathing.
Their small bodies did not respond to the lifesaving measures that, in any other moment, might have been enough.
Despite everything the first responders tried, they could not undo the irreversible.
The twins were rushed to a nearby hospital, but the verdict was already silently written in the stillness of their bodies.
At the hospital, they were pronounced dead.
Fire battalion chief Scott Douglas later said, “We did our best to revive them, unfortunately we were just too late.”
He also shared that Jenny was adamant the twins were only out of her sight for a short time — no longer than ten minutes.
The family’s attorney, John Boozer, emphasized that the exact timeline was still unclear.
“The family is still putting the pieces together,” he said gently.
The backyard pool, just ten feet from a door leading inside, had never been enclosed by a gate.
It was an open invitation for curiosity — the kind toddlers often cannot resist.
Their deaths immediately triggered an investigation, as is protocol whenever a child’s life is lost.
Captain Valerie Littlejohn of the Oklahoma City Police Department explained that the case would remain open until the Medical Examiner’s Office completed the toddlers’ autopsies — a process expected to take months.
“Anytime there’s a child death, we investigate until we know exactly what happened,” Littlejohn said.
But no investigation could mend the hole left in the Callazzo home.
Inside the house, grief hung like a heavy fog.
Jenny and her husband Sonny, who had not been home during the accident, were surviving “minute by minute,” according to Dawn.
“They have a lot of friends and support here to help them, thank heavens,” she added.
“But it’s tough.
It’s so tough.”
This heartbreak was not Jenny’s first.
Seventeen years earlier, she had lost her infant son Preston, who died at just five months old due to complications following cancer treatment.
That wound had long scarred but never fully healed.
Now, it had been torn open again in the most unimaginable way.
Jenny also had a 14-year-old daughter, whom Sonny adopted after they married, and together they had an 8-year-old son.
The home that once overflowed with children’s laughter now echoed with loss.
“Jenny feels naked without her babies to hold,” Dawn shared.
“She carries their stuffed animals everywhere because she says she doesn’t know how to walk without holding them.”
Jenny had told her, “Dawn, I don’t know how to move without my babies in my arms.”
The image was shattering — a mother clutching reminders of the children she could no longer carry.
Dawn herself broke down after visiting the family.
“I went home and bawled my eyes out,” she said.
“I don’t know how to help them.”
Her voice cracked when she spoke of the twins, describing how their presence had filled every room with joy.
“They were the most beautiful babies,” she said.
“And everyone who met them just loved them.”
The twins’ arrival into the world had been unexpected in the most extraordinary way.
Jenny and Sonny had not known they were expecting twins until 30 weeks into the pregnancy.
An ultrasound revealed not one heartbeat, but two — a discovery that shocked the family.
“They thought they were having one baby,” Dawn recalled.
“Then suddenly there were two.”
Born on August 1, 2021, the twins quickly became the heart of the family.
They were bright, lively, expressive, and endlessly curious.
Locklyn adored playing the harmonica, producing off-key but enthusiastic melodies that filled the house with laughter.
Loreli loved to dance and sing, twirling in small circles, her smile wide enough to warm any room.
Locklyn had just begun forming full sentences.
Loreli had just learned the word “sissy,” which she used lovingly for her older sister.
They played hide and seek behind curtains, their tiny feet sticking out beneath the fabric — a giveaway they never understood.
The adults always saw the feet, but pretended not to, letting the toddlers squeal in victory when they were “found.”
Their innocence was pure, untouched, unshadowed by fear or sorrow.
To lose them both on the same day, in the same moment, was a cruelty beyond measure.
It was as if fate had taken not just two children, but one whole light from the world.
Grief counseling began that week for the Callazzo family.
Friends showed up with food, prayers, shoulders to cry on, and long embraces that never felt long enough.
Even strangers reached out — parents who had also lost children to drowning.
They sent messages, shared their stories, and offered the only kind of comfort that didn’t feel hollow.
“It helps them feel like they’re not alone,” Dawn said.
“Other people have lived through this, and somehow that brings a little comfort.”
But it was comfort in the smallest, most fragile measure — like a single candle flickering in a dark, cavernous room.
Nothing would ever replace the twins.
Nothing would ever fill the empty spaces where their laughter once lived.
The family now faced a long, aching journey — one step at a time, one minute at a time — learning to live in a world that had taken away two of its brightest smiles.
Their home would forever be changed.
Their memories would forever carry both warmth and unbearable sorrow.
And the love they held for Locklyn and Loreli would remain, timeless and unbroken, bound together just as the twins had always been.
