Day 3: Rand

Christmas Vacation, early 70's.
Father Randy gave communion in our garage. I knelt and look up into the easy smiling face of the angel priest, the keeper of secrets, the giver of kindness, the kindergartener.

Forgotten Month, early 70's.
Randy called. He was finally home from eye surgery. My deep chasm of loneliness overflowed with joy. It took nine seconds from hanging up the phone to knocking on his door - I counted. He stood in his pajamas and tender smile. His eye was so blood red it scared me. I made an excuse and took the long walk home and cried. I cried because I couldn't look at him.

Summer, mid 70's.
The day of his grandpa's funeral they brought him over to swim with me. He was at that age where he was too old to cry and too young for funerals. We swam, propped our elbows on the edge of the pool and talked, and swam some more. I asked him about Papu. He answered from the heart. I don't remember the words.

Summer, early 80's.
The four of us ruled the Mary Star Fiesta, as usual.

Summer, early 80's
Catalina. I was a hormonal mess. I shouted, "I don't want to have to babysit him the whole week!" THOSE words I remember. Why did it have to be those words? I have never forgiven myself.

Summer, mid 80's.
Fiesta time. I'm standing with his sister and two of mine. Randy introduces his girlfriend to everyone but me. Revenge is sweet. But I thought Randy was sweeter than that. Maybe he had just - - forgotten me.

Winter, early 2000's.
His dad died. I walk into the funeral home and feel a tap on my shoulder. I know that easy, thoughtful face. It breaks my heart. I open my arms for communion.

Spring, mid 2000's.
I see him at my parents' 50th anniversary dinner. We share awkward pauses and conversation. I miss our effortlessness. I have forgotten our words. I remember thinking: Tell him you love him and always will. Tell him you wish to spend time together, to not be forgotten. Invite him over. We don't have to talk. We can just dunk our heads and swim.