You were the Diana to my Anne. Even though the hair colors were the other way around. You with the red, and I the raven . I was the one with the great ideas, leaky rowboat, anyone ? I was the one who could never turn down a dare. Walk a ridgepole on a roof? Ride standing up bareback while galloping? No problem. I was the tomboy with the frogs in coffee cans. You were always the voice of reason. As in , ” I don’t know about this!” “Are you sure this is a good idea?!?” But you never squealed on me, even though maybe sometimes you should have. You were the one who always knew the right and proper things to say. I was the one who blurted out a totally inappropriate (albeit truthful!) comment. I would definitely have been the one to talk you into jumping into Great-Aunt Jo’s bed in the middle of the night. We’ve had some of those not-so-bosom friend times, though. My fault, your fault, didn’t really matter. I always looked dreamily across the pond , writing melancholy poetry wishing I had taken a lock of your hair to weep over. But for all that, we are and always will be sisters. The Red and the Raven, with all the inside jokes that only we will ever know. And I can’t say that I can imagine anything better.