It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a lonely girl in possession of a library card must be in want of a twin. The child who spends a lot of time in books also spends a lot of time thinking about the lost or secret twin she must have – “must have” meaning surely has, but “must have” in the sense of “needs,” also – that mirror child who loves her, IS her, holds her hand always.

Every story is trying to do one of two things: reflect the world; or perfect the world. Sometimes it’s trying to do both; either way it’s trying to impose order on a chaotic and isolating world, like we learned in freshman English. The Sweet Valley High Wakefields, the Parent Trap kids, Luke and Leia, even generations of Doublemint twins used literal reflections, mirror images, in the service of their perfections. The twins of these tales complete patterns, explain evil, right wrongs, give permission to fight and scheme and paint your room brown.

All pairs do this to a degree: tell us where to look, create frameworks. Sun and moon, salt and pepper, before and after, thunder and lightning, Juniors and Seniors…Mantle and Maris. Say the word “Mantle” and it suggests half a dozen things, the name “Maris” a smaller group, but the two of them together is only one thing, in one time, known and precise. Pairs organize the memory, so that even when one half is gone, the remaining half suggests its mate, locates you in time. 

There is a pair of cardinals living in an old-growth tree near my house, named by me for St. Louis Cardinals as I’ve done for years, and to hear Mrs. Dean’s song is to know Dizzy will appear on our feeder seconds later. The world is so often not that way; we don’t know what’s coming or if it’s going to make any sense. Sometimes the other half is foreboding, the other shoe dropping, another think coming. Mostly it’s just stuff breaking or getting lost. Mostly we live with mismatched sets, boot heels glued back on off-plumb, the serving spoon that got et by the disposal and won’t play nice in the drawer anymore, and we just make do, until “the new one” or “the crooked one” is just “the other one.” Until it belongs.

Until we figure out how to insure the heart, this is what we do. We will never figure that out, it can’t be done, but believing in secret twins, or that what might make us whole is waiting on the road ahead, makes it seem possible – that a hand waits to hold ours. And sometimes we’re left, but sometimes we’re right, walking through a crime scene with a new friend on his birthday.

Happy birthday, Don.

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