I think I have the best sister out there.

Don’t be jealous—I know that other great ones exist; but, my sister buys me jewelry, and not just any jewelry, but meaningful gems for my geologically-inspired heart.

She thinks my neurotic hang-ups are not only nothing, but sweet and cute. She makes me feel beautiful, and special and whole—whole because she’s my twin—we’re identical, actually; more, we’re mirror-image identical twins.

All Conjoined twins are mirror-image–they separate later in birth.

And I’ll tell you—I’ll be completely honest here—I wanted to write this article for all sisters everywhere. Two of my best, best, besty friends are sisters—and while I hope this touches their hearts, and all loving sisters—this is for you, my mirror-image twin. (Consider it an early birthday card.)

It’s also for the other mirror-image twins out there—and I know you exist because you’ve messaged me. (I’m sorry if I haven’t gotten back to you yet.)

It’s for the little girl who pretended her Cabbage Patch Kids’ babysitter had come through her mysteriously convenient closet door so that I could go to the “movies” with her after my own “sitter” had walked through my pink wall by my dresser to play with yellow-yarn-pigtailed Azalia Zara and her older sister with the sandy-colored yarn curls, Rachael Barbara.

I remember fondly the times when we’ve laughed endlessly over our inside-joke-of-the-moment and I still—just being truthful here, of course—get angry that you took Christopher Robin’s baby bottle (a real one Mom bought for your favorite Cabbage doll) to Dad’s downstairs bathroom sink by our playroom with the pint-sized, plastic kitchenette and He-Man castle—Castle Grayskull, oh yeah—to make “tears” that got me in trouble for punching you, after you repeatedly poked me in the arm.

I may or may not still have teensy, tiny fingernail marks on my left inner wrist from one of our many (more “boyish?”) fights.

I’m glad we were “boyish.”

I like that we’ve always been able to be a little raunchy and talk about sex and share secrets, beyond secrets, beyond secrets.

You are my confidante. You are my most wild and vigilante supporter.

You are wild. And fun, and alive, and you make me feel alive and you remind me to live—and I’m sorry if I ever make you feel judged for your vivacity and your verve and for being you, especially when you make me a better me.

You were there when I broke my arm (for the first time), you were there when I broke my heart (for the first time), and you were there after, to tell me to grow up and that falling is a part of the deal—no, wait, this was the way that I acted with you. You, however, hugged me and and hugged me and hugged me some more and you coddled me—you still coddle me.

My neck has been so sore these last couple months with my chronic sinusitis and you’ve brought me now two awesome lavender and hops—oh my!—filled neck warmers. (Because I actually wore out the first one.)

You know what?

Let’s just cut to the chase—I love you. No, I adore you. I respect you. I am you—and you are me.

We’re twins—we’re more—we’re identical mirror-image twins.

I am the sun and you are the moon and I need you.

So happy birth month, sister, and here’s to us.

Here’s to the time we parked my blue Dodge Shadow in the parking lot of our old elementary school in almost-the-middle of the teenaged night to dance to a song on the radio (I’ll admit it—it was Bush)—the music cranked up loud, the car doors open in the humid, Ohio summer dark.

And here’s to all the girls out there who love a sister like her right hand—no, her left hand, since that one’s mine—and, Sarah, this is for you.

For Blind Melon’s Tones of Home becoming our song after dancing to it on the top of a Colorado mountain during our second family trip out there when we were in high school.

And here’s to us being old and still raunchy and having fun like the Golden Girls. (I’m Blanche.)

And here’s to you still making me whole because here’s the bigger secret of mirror-image twins: they might physically split later in birth, but they never, never split in their hearts.

So when we fight and disagree and the men in our lives don’t understand our relationship or when our poor parents feel double-teamed and like they had a difficult time parenting two extremely fiery and independent ladies, maybe this will help them to know and understand, once and for all, that we were always more than friends—we’re sisters.

We were always more than two separate people with two separate minds and two different ways of living and breathing—and we never meant to make others feel less than, because they weren’t also two.

And while I’m grateful when lovers take our sides, our opinions and our burdens, at the end of the day you’re still my sister and I’ll always do more than love you:

I’ll carry your heart. I’ll carry it in mine.