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The story of two girls, the story of two women, and everything in between.

8 Dec


Where to begin? I sit here, hands tracing the keys of my laptop, but I don’t know how to start our story; to really tell our story in a way that will do it justice. It probably won’t make sense to anyone else. But it does to us, so I guess that is all that matters.

As our mentor’s mentor, Ernest Hemingway, said, “All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.”

And so I shall try:

I saw a girl, once, sitting on the ground of the third floor of an old, musty school building and she looked like the most beautiful and interesting thing, and I was desperate, instantly, to get close to her.


I have written many stories on here, about my childhood and adulthood and parenthood, about things joyful and sorrowful and fanciful, but there is one piece of my life that I have left almost untouched.

I did not have a traditional college experience. I started off attending the Honors Program of a big state school, so that I had tiny, elite classes, but also giant, cheering crowds of football fans (which was supposed to be the best of both worlds) and I stayed there for a year and a half straight.

It was there that I fell in love, with reading literature and with a boy from a tiny town in the Mid-Hudson River Valley.

It wasn’t a perfect fit for me, but I have some fond, nostalgic memories; of running in a storm of icy snow to catch the school’s busline, so that I would make it in time for my seminar on Jewish Cinema; of walking into crowded frat parties, with their smell of stale kegs and the feel of sticky floors and air; of being selected to sing in the school’s talent competition my first week as a Freshman; of buying a beer funnel and leaving it in a tax and buying funnel cake and eating it at Arts Fest; of watching the Friends series finale and sobbing on the floor of the dorm room two doors down, which always seemed to smell like popcorn. And the list goes on.

But after a year and a half, I left school and the small life that I had built there to travel abroad to Barcelona (where I would experience many new things, the most important being Twin (obviously).

Upon my return home to the states that May, the summer after my Sophomore year, I decided that I did not want to go back to the big school, 3 hours from home. I had just lived in a vibrant, colorful world, and couldn’t bear to go to a place where there were no tall buildings. I don’t mean to say this disparagingly. People live and breathe for the school that I attended. It just wasn’t for me.

And so I transferred, to a satellite campus in Philadelphia, where I was able to remain in the Honors College.

This was the best academic decision I have ever made.

I entered into a class of five. There were five of us in the Honors Program. It was so intimate and astounding and life-altering…

but I have gotten ahead of myself.

On my first day of classes at my new school, where I knew no one, I felt nervous and detached. I had made the choice to trade these huge, crowded cities for a mere two buildings and a duck pond.

As I had already declared myself an English major during my Freshman year, my first class was one on literature, with this incredibly smart and dynamic, dark-haired professor who spoke with great passion about American Popular Culture.

And after that, I trekked up the stairs of the old building that housed most of the Liberal Arts classes,

and I found my way down a small, corridor, to a tiny corner classroom.

And there she was.

Sitting on the floor with a spiral notebook, I saw this beautiful, and elegant and impossibly chic looking girl. And as we introduced ourselves, we realized that we had been previously “set up” by mutual friends, but just so happened to have met coincidentally that day. She was one of the five in my class.

My honors class was like “The Breakfast Club”. Really. We were all so different, but got along beautifully. There were four girls and one boy: One quiet but sweet Information, Science and Technology girl, one Class President type, studying business and ruling the school with her sparkly, kind demeanor, a shaggy haired boy, shy and pensive and incredibly bright, and then, the girl. She was a fellow English major. She liked words like I did.

And at the helm of our happy, mis-matched group was a Hemingway scholar like no other.

She was the author of a book about the “Lost Generation”, the group of colorful expatriates who gathered in Paris, often at Gertrude Stein’s salon after World War 1 (or, as they thought, The Great War), like Hemingway, Fitzgerald, T.S. Eliot and Jon Dos Passos. Note: I am oversimplifying this incredibly, and for that I am sorry. But if i were to continue to try to define the Lost Generation, this post would turn into a novel and I wouldn’t be able to see straight.

Our Professor was a personal acquaintance of the Hemingway family, and she knew it all. She introduced us to his short stories, novels, memoir…and to the color and life of that time in history.

Why does all of this matter?

It matters because this band of early 20th Century misfits seemed to mirror and our little Honors band of misfits, and learning with my class, in this tiny classroom around a boardroom style table

changed my life.

Because it brought me a soul sister.

I wrote this week about soul friends, and from the moment we met, the beautiful girl from the hallway floor and I formed a bond.

I admired everything about her, and the closer we got, the more I liked her and marveled at her.

I loved her sense of style, and the way she furnished her apartment (it seemed so grown up to me, with her fancy lamps and dressers painted with flowers and her own cats!) and her incredible work ethic. Her brain. Her insight. Her intellect.

The next two years, she and I worked closely together, as we were in almost all the same classes, and our Hemingway Scholar Professor became the mentor for both of our Honors Theses.

It is funny to say this, because I had a long-term relationship for the first half of college, met my Twin during Sophomore year, met my husband during Junior year and became engaged to him during my Senior, but this girl, to me, is like my one, real college friend.

I realize that I am in the minority, as I see my friends so connected with their former sorority sisters and roommates, but for me it was different. As I told her today, it was quality over quantity. And she’s it.

And over the years since college we have woven in and out of each others lives. There were times when we were inseparable, seeing each other several times a week and talking for hours on the phone; and other times that years went by without a date; but it never mattered. Never ever. Not once has she missed calling me on my birthday, and when my daughter was born, we brought her downtown to meet my dear friend in her gorgeous city apartment.

In the past few months, though, I will say that we have connected in a way that is so profound, it is almost impossible to describe. I was talking to her today and I said, “It’s funny that you’re the hardest person I’ve ever tried to write about.”

And she replied, “Because words don’t do it for us. It’s deeper. Ironic…”

and I finished her sentence with, “because we are both all about words.”

We have not seen each other in years at this point, but are planning to reunite soon. But until then we speak every day, and we are just there for one another in this impossible, indescribable way.

And, you may ask, if it is so hard to describe, then why are you writing about it?

And I would reply, because I love to tell stories; that is what this is all about. And this is a big part of my story. And she is a muse; a radiant character, and she deserves to be a subject of some sort of art, and this is a (terribly inadequate but) fine place to start.

I had asked her to show me pictures of her apartment, as I have always been so amazed by her style. And she sent me these photos and told me to look closely.

photo 2

photo 1-1

Hanging prominently in her apartment for the past two years are two sketches that I made for her the year after we graduated. In the top photo, it is the drawing of a cat, stretching. In the bottom, it is a girl’s face, with red lips.

When she showed me this, gobsmacked is the best word I can use to describe how I felt. I drew her these pictures because I love her and I shared them with her because I trust her, but this is not me being modest when I say I that am not an artist. I am not very good at drawing. But for her, these pieces were special enough to hang in her home, her sanctuary. I am humbled beyond words.

There are many stories in my story; the story of how divergent paths can lead you to the same place as someone with whom you’re meant to be; the story of how friendship, when true, prevails over all else; the story of two young women, who met at twenty, are meeting each other, a decade later, and falling in love all over again; the story of passion; and the story of college, and how it looks different for everyone.

I saw a girl, once, sitting on the ground of the third floor of an old, musty school building and she looked like the most beautiful and interesting thing, and the closer I got to her, the more she unfolded, and the more stunning she became.

I always say this to her,

that I am a reader and not a writer,

so I will leave it to one of the greats to wrap up our story for now.

But I just mean on the computer,

for I believe our story together has only just begun.

Their eyes met and in an instant, in an inexplicable and only half conscious rush of emotion, they were in perfect communion.

F. Scott Fitzgerald.


“Trapped in the circumference of my head.”

4 Dec

This is not a happy post. But it is hopeful. And hopeful is the best we can do.


I love home decorating, especially covering my walls with meaningful pieces, as  511 suggests.

But in all honesty, I am not yet in a place in my life where I can collect a lot of real art;

I have my framed piece from the Festival Internacional de Musica en Barcelona in my Living Room

and a photo of Keith Richards that my dad shot as the Stones played in Hyde Park last summer, which hangs in my Entry Way.

And this and that.

I have but one piece of true art in my home, and it means a great deal to me. It is a framed and signed poem by Ray Bradbury, given to us as a wedding gift, from an incredibly person in our lives.

It is so significant for so many reasons; I am obsessed with words;

It is something so unique and rare;

It reminds me (us) of just how complex, complicated, confusing and often consuming the human mind can be.

Here is the text:


The autumn sea, October sea
Tears darkened seams inconstantly
And stitches clouds with rain and fire
And charcoals hearths with dead desire
And turns old souls on burning spit,
Forget all Good, because of it;
Because of traveling night and clouds
Which bury moon in winding shrouds
The heart is buried , blood turned ice
And all the fruit jams, teas, and spice
Are pantry poisoned, forced to change
By weathers that incline to strange.
So what was dead now bolts upright
To knock is head on lid`s midnight,
And while all cold things jump and start,
Antarctica floes in warm heart
And tropic seas of blood are purged
By nightmare iceburgs, once submerged
Which now lift blizzard brows to seize
Sane room, sane door, sane locks ,sane keys,
And shriek the tumblers , warp the walls
With panic-colored storms and squalls.
And all of it, both live and dead ?
. . .
Trapped in circumference of my head.

Ray Bradbury 1979

Tonight I am brought back to the piece I wrote about depression, entitled, “Oh Captain, My Captain”, in which I discussed mental illness after Robin Williams’ devastating suicide.

In that piece, I made a plea to the people reading to help to protect their friends. I also tried to remind sufferers that they are not alone.

But today I had a conversation that explains it so perfectly.

If you have never experienced depression (which as of two years ago, I had not, in any way) it is very hard to understand.

It is insidious and it is debilitating.

But I think the most confusing part, despite the notion of “But you have so much, what could possibly be making you sad?”

is the feeling of abject loneliness.

Someone who is depressed feels so lonely. They can be surrounded by people, with friends, at a holiday dinner, not alone in any way, but still terribly lonely.

It feels like drowning.

I am welling up with tears even typing this, as it is the worst feeling imaginable.

I am lucky enough to have a network of soul friends, as I call them, who can relate to me on this deep level of understanding that only sufferers can. But my heart aches for them, my stomach gnaws at itself, every time I hear that they were unable to get out of bed that day, or are feeling at their lowest, or can’t imagine ever feeling better.

I am not a doctor. I am also not “better”. I am still dealing with a lot. But, if there is any message I can impart to you

(and hopefully, if you know someone in need, you can share this with them, I implore you),

it is that things can and will get better. Even at the worst of times, when you can’t move or breathe or open your eyes because everything looks too bleak, but you can’t close your eyes because your brain is pounding you with it’s incessant ruminations and chatter,

it will pass.

That spell will pass.

I believe in intervention. I believe in therapy. I believe in medicine. I believe in alternative medicine. I believe in support systems.

I believe in holding your best friend’s hand and saying “I am not going to let you go anywhere.”

This post may seem out of the blue, as the last thing I posted about was my son watching Bravo TV, but trust me, it needs to be said.

Much love.


la Torá

25 Nov

At the very end of my semester in Barcelona, I decided to check out a tourist attraction that was very close to my apartment.

Poble Espanyol, as it is called by Americans, is this quaint little town centered around an architectural museum. My boyfriend and I walked around and shopped in the kitschy little stores with the made-to-look-old facades. But I did make one purchase there, a beautiful, fabric jewelry holder.

Since we moved into our new home almost two years ago, I set up my daughter’s “Big Girl” room with more sophisticated accents than she had in her nursery. I was happy to gift her with this Spanish jewelry holder, on which she could hold her necklaces, but costume and otherwise.

Fast forward 23 months to this morning. My daughter walked into my room with the dramatic flair that only she possesses.

“Oh mom!” she began. “Thank you so much for my Torah! It is the most beautiful Torah I have ever seen!”

And she handed this to me:


There are no words.

Twins 4eva

11 Apr

Originally Published on 511 Ever After.

If you have followed me here on this site, you will know that if my husband and kids are lead performers, Twin, as I call her, is best supporting actress. Not only is she my souldmatesisterbestfriendloveofmylife but we happen to share a birthday.
And I told her that I would open her gifts first thing.
And Oh. My. G.d

First, she got me Mr. and Mrs. Fox, Jonathan Adler salt and pepper shakers. Could you get more perfect? And here’s something that Twin doesn’t even know (so listen up, girl): My love of furniture and design and collections began at a very young age, as I spent many of my childhood weekends at antique shows and flee markets and auctions. My parents loved antiquing, so they decided to start a collection for me, so that at each of these places I would have a treasure to hunt down. And guess what I collected?
Salt and Pepper Shakers.
photo 1-23
As if the Foxes were not enough, I opened the second gift and my heart stopped.
You see, this is our tenth year celebrating our birthdays together. Our first birthday was when I was turning 20 and she 21, when we were randomly assigned as roommates in Barcelona.
photo 2-23
She got me a print of our city. And not only did she get me a print of our city, but she got me a technicolor, spectacular, perfect one.
I am so in love with my gifts,
just as I am with her.
Twins 4eva.

(The Big) Apple-y Ever After

3 Mar

Scenes from our little visit to our little sis:

We have arrived/sister’s turf/brunch/new meaning to “Bar of Soap”/a sweet little package/beautiful day in the neighborhood/Seals!/visiting an old favorite/my selection/a Barcelona flashback/The End

(Not pictured: An Anderson Cooper sighting/home fries and hugs with a dear friend/millions of baby and babysister moments)


28 Feb

28. Money

A 7-year-old bottle of Essie Nailpolish

in Castaway.

purchased at the fabulous El Corte Ingles. In Barcelona. With Euros. European Monday.

And, seven years later,  when I catch a glimpse of this color on my toes

I am brought back to Placa Catalunya,

to the Barca Spring,

walking in my Espadrilles

and becoming a big girl.

And, seven years later, the polish still works. And looks as good as ever.

So, yeah, that’s just MONEY.


1 Jan

New Year!

I hope that two thousand and twelve brings you peace and love. And dance parties and belly laughs. And glitter. And baby kisses. And more love.

And Happy Anniversary, to me.

To us.

For, on this night, seven years ago,

I was on a plane,

flying across the ocean,

to a far away land,

and to a new place, both literally and figuratively,

after which I would never, ever, evereverever be the same.

For in that place,

I fell in love

with a one of a kind City;

in that place,

I fell in love with a

One of a kind girl.


you mean more to me now than you meant to me then,

(and you meant a whole gosh-darn heck of a lot to me then)

and I do not know what my life would be without you.

You have taught me,

you have changed me,

you have accepted me,

you have held me,

you have loved me.

Twin, I love you more than you loved those chocolate churros, or that perfect bite of tapas at cal pep, or the amazing meusli at Mercadona, or the gummies at Bon Jon, or the puppies in the puppy store, or the smell of the Rocafort metro stop…

or the big red couches.

Happy Anniversary, Barca. Happy Anniversary, Twin. Happy New year.

Happiness Always.

(And P.S. because it must be said. Because, well, it just must: “Later that day I got to thinking about relationships. There are those that open you up to something new and exotic, those that are old and familiar, those that bring up lots of questions, those that bring you somewhere unexpected, those that bring you far from where you started, and those that bring you back. But the most exciting, challenging and significant relationship of all is the one you have with yourself. And if you can find someone to love the you you love, well, that’s just fabulous.”Carrie Bradshaw, Sex and the City, Series Finale. Twin, seriously…I love you more.)

“I never not wanted it”

26 Dec

This morning, as the dogs snored from their perch in the windowsill,

and the husband readied the house for the impending snowstorm,

and the babe slept quietly by my side,

I caught up with some old friends.


And you know that scene up there?

You know, the one in “Ghost Town”, when Aidan and Carrie find themselves on the back stoop at Scout, and Aidan feeds Carrie the cake, with that fine new haircut of his?

Yeah, that scene kills me. And not just because I’m now 6 days shy of the 6 year anniversary of when I set off for Barcelona.

Well, it may be because of that,

but just a little.

Sometimes, I forget how much I miss my old city,

and my old girlfriends,

and old (pre-travesty-that-is-SATC the movie-SEQUEL) Aidan.

Because when I think about it,

really, really think about it,

those things really do take the cake.

far more importantly, happy 1/2 birthday,

11 Oct

dear Twin!!!

Meet you here,

for tapas, in 10!


Oh, and save room to pop into here

for dessert. Or, we can make them sing to us over brownie sundaes at Hard Rock again. Totally up to you.

As long as we end our night on the big red couches in front of this

Deal? Deal.

Besos, mi amor!

You know you love me, xoxo, tapas girl.


25 Aug

Maybe it’s a new mom thing;

Maybe it’s because I’m trying to hold onto every moment,

to take in every everything about every minute,

as time seems to be racing by;

Maybe it’s just me,

but, just this week, I’ve been overcome

and overwhelmed

by memories.

They keeps sneaking up on me.

Like when I was searching around in the lazy susan in the beach house kitchen,

and I came across my old seahorse lunchbox.

I was flooded with the memories of my summer living the beach, when I worked as a camp’s theatre counselor, the year before I met my husband.

I opened the tiny, blue pail, to find my little silverware set tucked neatly inside.

I remembered using that tiny, yellow fork to spear hunks of watermelon from a plastic dish, as I sat, hungover, in the camp auditorium, and tried to stay awake.

That was the summer that I threw the best beach house parties (the only party parties I’ve ever thrown),

where we drank margaritas from a plastic bucket in the garage,

and slept, under mountains of comforters, on the living room couches,

not waking up the next morning until noon,

just in time to throw on my flip flops

and drive to the ice cream shop for breakfast.

I still cherish all that was that summer, and that lunchbox gave me an excuse to revisit those memories.

Earlier today, I had an insane Proust moment,

as I put a finishing gloss on my damp hair and inhaled the scent of the olive oil hair creme.

It was Barcelona.

Fredrick Fekkai had somehow managed to bottle the scent of my Spanish apartment.

I could not stop breathing it in,

as with every deep gulp of air,

I was able to conjure up a new memory of my time abroad.

That smell was so evocative,

so real,

so Barca.

Immediately, I texted Twin. Only she would understand. She did.

Yet another memory that I am so desperate to hold onto,

and enjoyed having, literally, on my fingertips, today.

Just a few minutes ago, I crept downstairs for some post-dessert-dessert. You know, sometimes a girl just needs a second helping.

Plus, I had hidden a very special treat for myself, tucked safely in a little nook behind the bread basket.

It was a small package of thin, almond biscuits.

With my first bite,

I saw my Nanny again.

My Nanny and I munched on these delicious biscuits during our High Tea dates,

as we talked about her favorite artists, my favorite Broadway shows and the beauty in the world.

I miss my Nanny, who passed away twelve years ago, for I know how much she would love being a great-grandmother to my daughter.

Sleepovers at my Nanny’s were so special, and I wish my daughter could experience those moments of joy.

I would wake up in the morning, completely enveloped in her plush down comforter,

and I can so vividly remember picturing myself, high above the town in my snuggly bed, as the rest of the world was outside, blanketed by an icy snow. For some reason, that image made me feel so warm and safe, and I treasured those feelings of contentment and coziness. My Nanny would bring me an elaborate breakfast in bed, using crystal glasses, fine china and freshly cut flowers. It was always so special. She was so special.

I have to remember to remember all of these memories,

so that I can tell them to my daughter,

as bedtime stories

as she grows.

Tonight, my little family and I snuggled in bed, and ate warm ricotta cheesecake, from right out of the container.

I hope that, several years from now, when I taste a bite of toasted coconut, or inhale some cool, salt air, or hear my husband laugh, warmly; deeply,

that I am flooded with the memory of tonight; A normal, every day, Wednesday night at the end of August,

in the first year of my baby’s life.

I want to remember every normal, every day, Wednesday night for the rest of my life.

I want to remember the feel of my baby’s smoothest skin as she sprawled across my chest, right before her evening bath.

I want to remember the look on her face as she devoured her oatmeal, opening her mouth like a baby bird, asking for more.

I want to remember the sound of the waves, the smell of our hamburgers grilling, the taste of the fresh strawberries I cut for my husband after breakfast,

and everything in between.

Please don’t let me forget. Please don’t let me forget. Please don’t let me forget.

I hope,

oh how I hope,

that the act of remembering to remember

will help me to keep the memories alive.

I guess I better go eat some more of that cheesecake,

just to make sure that I don’t forget anything, not one little bite.

I mean, bit.

sister from another mister

7 Jul

My daughter has taken to grasping onto things.

Today, during yoga, it was my ponytail.

Which made for quite the interesting Cat/Cow situation.

She’s very tactile,

And loves to feel things, to grab things, to hold things and to touch things at all times.

But, nothing compares to her most favorite object to grab,

My beloved Twinkle necklace.

Interestingly enough, little does she know that my necklace isn’t actually 100% mine,

That it also belongs to her,

(hey, maybe she’s a baby with a sixth sense about these things….

Or, maybe she’s a baby who loves nice jewelry, who knows?)

And will be dangling from her own long, beautiful neck when she grows older.

You see, my Twinkle necklace is a most special necklace, from a most special person,

And it brings me immeasurable joy to know that she loves it already.

But, I’ve gotten ahead of myself.

Let me backtrack.

To Barcelona.

You see, an incredible thing happened to me when I was 19 years old.

I found out that I had a long-lost twin sister.

My twin sister and I were born on the same day,

(albeit one year apart),

We had the same brown hair,

The same full-lipped smile,

The same love of literature,

And Showtunes,

And sushi,

And cupcakes.

The same heart,

And, most definitely, the same soul.

My twin sister and I found each other through an amazing series of events

That led us across the Atlantic Ocean,

And onto the big, red couches in our beautiful Barcelona apartment.

You see, Twin and I were both signed up to study abroad in Barcelona for the Semester, and were randomly assigned as roommates,

Along with three other girls.

I can remember receiving the email with my housing information,

Seeing her name on the form,

Emailing with her, late one winter night, from the computer at my parents’ house,

Discovering that, amazingly, we were born on the very same day.

What a coincidence.

I liked this girl.

I couldn’t wait to meet her.

I remember waking my parents up to tell them that I talked to one of my roommates, and that she was incredibly sweet and shared my birthday.

My mom’s response?

“You two are going to be life-long friends.”

There’s that mother’s intuition again.

When Twin and I met, it was love at first sight.

I immediately adored this girl with the beautiful, big smile,

Incredible intellect,

Adorable wit,

And sweet, strong demeanor.

We spent endless hours talking,

Confiding in one another,

And growing closer than I’d ever grown with a new friend.

We also spent endless hours watching Sex and the City on DVD.

As I’ve said before, Sex and the City has been a big part of my life,

And I think Twin would agree with me that it was one of the things that bonded us first,

And bonded us most.

My friendship with my Twin only grew as our semester ended and we each returned home.

We talked often, through emails, texts, late-night phone calls, video messages, letters, postcards, e-cards…basically, through every way possible.

We exchanged care packages and

love notes,

as nothing brought such a smile to my face as seeing her beautiful handwriting on a letter peaking out of my mailbox.

Our visits were the best. We visited one another at each others’ homes,

And took trips together,

Including the time when we shared an amazingly fabulous hotel room in New York City…and did I mention, my husband was there, too? Let me tell you, she is the only person with whom my husband would agree to have a sleepover.

You see, they’re in love too.

She’s my Twin, so it’s all good.

The weekend we spent together in NYC was the absolute best.

It was in February, so it was frigid, but we lived out all of our SATC dreams,

Sipping champagne over brunch,

Dining out on exotic sushi at after 10pm,

A twilight stroll through central park, arm-in-arm,

Playing dress-up in FAO Schwartz

(well, maybe this one was more Big than SATC, but let me tell you, we had the best time).

Twin has shared more with me than I can write about.

We are bonded,

In a way that I am bonded with no other human being,

Because of the things we have endured together,

And the incredible understanding that we share.

It was Twin that slept over with me the night before my wedding,

As we sipped on Cosmopolitans from my own personal Cosmo bar in the Bridal Suite (let me tell you, having a wedding coordinator who is also a huge SATC fan is a giant perk) and dined on cupcakes and snuggled in the biggest, coziest, most luxurious hotel bed.

It is my Twin who has seen me at my best,

And seen me through my worst,

And she has loved me,

And held me,

And been exactly what I needed, when I needed it,

For everything important.

And let me tell you, there’s been a lot.

So, it comes as no surprise that my Twin got me the most meaningful present for my birthday this year. You see, my baby was due the week of our shared birthday, so we both hoped that she would be our extra special birthday gift and would surprise us by coming on that day.

Well, true to form,

My daughter was fashionably one week late for our birthdays,

But right on time for her own due-date.

I think my daughter needed her own day.

She’s just that fabulous.

When I opened the birthday box that my Twin had sent to me,

I was blown away, truly.

She wrote that she wanted to give me something special,

Something that I could share with my baby girl once she was old enough.

Something just perfect,

To get lost in the silk lining of a vintage purse.

It was my own name necklace.

But, it wasn’t my own name.

Nor was it my daughter’s name,

As that was a secret.

It was a Twinkle name necklace, with a diamond over the “I”,

The most beautiful, perfect, fabulous necklace, with just the right amount of bling.

You see, before the baby was born, we called her Twinkle.

Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.

Even when she was born and named, this baby would always be our little glowing star.

Not only is the necklace itself amazing,

But the sentiment behind it is truly priceless.

My Twin got us an heirloom,

Something that represented our own relationship with one another,

Something that symbolized my future relationship with my precious daughter,

And something that nodded to our favorite show in the world.

A better present, there has never been.

So, the fact that my daughter has taken to grasping her tiny fingers around the Twinkle necklace

Makes me think she is a little smarter than her eleven and a half weeks would suggest.

She knows the love behind that gold nameplate.

She knows that it will, one day, be hers,

A constant reminder of the family that she will know and love.

As Carrie Bradshaw says,

“Sometimes, it’s the family you’re born into. And sometimes, it’s the one you make for yourself.”

My Twin is my sister.

She’s a part of my heart.

She’s my family, as she’s in my blood,

As we’re forever tied by this strange and amazing kinship that neither of us could ever describe,

Or ever replace,

Or ever live without.

We dream of going back to Barcelona together,

And who knows,

Maybe, hopefully, someday we will get there,

With our own families,

And revisit where our most special story began, many, many years ago.

But, for now, just as Carrie herself says, “After all, seasons change. So do cities. People come into your life and people go. But it’s comforting to know the ones you love are always in your heart. And if you’re very lucky, a plane ride away.”