My brother and I are two years and three months apart. I know that a lot of times, siblings are bitter rivals and never figure out how to get along, but Mike has always been my best friend and closest ally.

When he was born, my parents had just bought a house in what was the outskirts of Albuquerque at the time, with a bedroom for each of us. The separation never really took. He slept in my old crib, which I'd long figured out -- my mom would find me in there with Mike most mornings, playing with his toys while he watched good-naturedly. Once he was too big for the crib, I insisted we share a room, so my dad quickly scrounged up a bunk bed for us.

We've had our differences, as most siblings have. Mike was always the popular, athletic one, while I was the weird, antisocial schoolie. It led to major turmoil only once, as I've previously detailed. He finally played the bigger man and walked away -- which he had to do a lot, to keep me from taking myself and my problems too seriously.

But when I really had one, I knew he'd be there for me. He may have been better loved among our peers, but it didn't defray his (perhaps misguided) hero worship for his older sibling. I've lost count of the activities he joined because I'd enjoyed them.

Today, we may be on opposite sides of the country, which may stretch our link, but it cannot be broken. It may not be in vogue to say it, but my brother is my oldest, dearest and best friend, and nothing will change that.