I remember my little sister's tiny finger wrapped around my pinky as clear as day.
Her nose was upturned, eyes wide and bleary-looking. She lay wrapped in crisp white hospital blankets, in a tiny incubator, less than a metre from her twin sister. They were identical, but I had known who was which by the way they breathed and how their lips rested. I had known them instantly and separated them from one another before they had even gotten to see the outside of the hospital walls.
Meeting them is the first real memory I have. Sure I can picture flashes of my mother before and I can see a dog eating out my hand that I know we had before my twin sisters' were born. Some moments and memories are familiar to me, but nothing as clear as this.
I had cradled their cheeks through the small hole in the box with such an intensity that it shocked even me, at almost-five years old. I considered that perhaps this was the first time I had realised what true, overwhelming love was.
Watch: The unspoken, heroic acts of sisterhood.
I'm 25 years old now and those tiny twins who were considered miracle babies back in 2002 are now 21 years old. They're best friends and dental assistants and still share the same identical features that strangers can't differentiate.
I have another sister who is just 18 months younger than me. We have been best friends and enemies our entire lives. When my twin sisters were born, they followed us around in our old dresses and gum boots, jogging to catch up with our strides. This is the way of having siblings much younger than you; you think you're walking alone and then, in the corner of your eye, they are there, a few steps behind you, trying their hardest to be right beside you.