Sunday was my birthday.
I turned 36.
I wasn’t the only one to turn 36 that day.
She did, too.
She’s my identical twin sister.
She’s been around as long as I can remember.
And, obviously, much before that.
We don’t talk.
For reasons too private and painful to get into here, we have always had a very difficult relationship.
Though we did have ‘a language’, we have never been the best friends that society pressured us to be.
It can be tough being an identical twin.
The unintended pressure from society is huge.
You’re thought of as a unit that should dress alike, look alike, think alike, be alike, and be rooted magically in each other’s psyche and soul because you share DNA and parked in the same womb-space for 9 months.
You’re not an individual to most people.
And if you chafe against that expectation or don’t fit it, it can get rough.
It doesn’t help when you get birthday gifts like a Hello Kitty notebook with the declaration that, “it’s for both of you”.
But those are things that are small and trivial.
Our issues are neither small, nor trivial.
It’s like a never-ending competition that I’m not even participating in and certainly didn’t sign up for.
We have struggled with our relationship as long as I can remember.
Then my son, Matthew, died.
Between things that happened during that time and our past, it pretty much broke our already-fragile-relationship into so many pieces they really can not ever be put back together again.
Even if it all the stuff over the years could be mended, I’m not sure either of us would even want a relationship at this point.
On Sunday I thought of her.
I thought about us.
I sat staring at my phone.
I didn’t pick it up to dial.
Neither did she.