My twin lives in Chicago.
Though not technically my twin, but more like a blonde me, three kids and thick frizzy hair and all. And not even really a sister, but more like the person you've spent more than half your life with, loving and playing and heartbreaking with. And not actually Chicago, really, but more like the farthest northwestern suburbs of Chicago, beyond the reaches of the Blue Line but not yet to Wisconsin.
We share a birthplace and a home church, slight spiritual and political rebellions, and a deep love of books and Jesus. We started here in Kansas City, but then she went to the University of Missouri and I went to the University of Kansas, I went to Chicago, and she went to Wisconsin, then she went to Chicago, and I came back to KC. Then I went to Ireland, and she held steady.
She's holding steady still, while I flit and float all over the place. This is actually how it's always been. When I wander, she keeps the light on.
And when I need a break and a quiet glass of wine, or when she needs a laugh and a change of pace, she says, "How about I buy you a plane ticket?" and I say, "Oh, yes, please! I miss you." She asks me, "What do you want to do?" And I say, "Let's just be in the city, look at art and feel alive."
Because a twin knows when she's needed, even if not really a twin. Even with half a gaggle of kids between us. Even across all the miles.