My first best friend’s name was Sydney.  We had known each  other since we were less than a year old, brought together by our  nannies.  We both had vivid red hair, and a temper to match.  We  were best friends and worst enemies all at the same time, and  that’s what love is.  The pure and true kind you feel when you’re  three years old, because your love is unfiltered, and you haven’t  yet tasted your first lie.  We were nearly sisters, the way we  fought, played, screamed, taunted, and bargained.  We yanked on  each other’s pigtails until the surrendering girl cried, but we  would be braiding each other’s hair within the next five minutes. 

I moved away when I was seven.  I cried for days, and was  bitter for years.  I don’t know what happened to Sydney, my first  and truest friend.  She certainly doesn’t know what has happened  to me.