The last time I saw her, we spent an afternoon at the park. She was joining up with the Navy and her recruiter told her two things: chew gum, and start running. So we ran and walked, and chewed gum, and talked. We went to high school together, hung out, but I can't remember if she's two years younger than me, or three, or what. Don't ask why or how it came to it, but I threatened to throw her shoes over the baseball fence, to which she responded, "go ahead, I'm Mexican; we're good at climbing fences." A couple minutes later, as we walked around the park, she giggled, ran over to a drainage ditch and jumped it. I looked at her sideways and raised an eyebrow. "We're good at crossing rivers, too."
Whenever the word 'Mexican' comes up in a conversation (or on the radio, or television, or in print), some little part of my mind snaps straight to her. Some sizeable part of my heart goes there, too. I try to not regret the things I've done and try to not do things that I might regret, but I can't help it with her. I regret losing touch with her. I regret not being closer to her. I regret a lot of things when it comes to her.
We brought in a Colombian woman for portraits this morning for an upcoming article, and there was just something about her that threw me. I can't help thinking about her right now, and thinking about her means feeling that slow ache of regret. I wish I had a picture of her somewhere, and I might, but it'll be on film, which means it's somewhere at my parents' place. Mrs Pomare, I believe, is what she'll look like in ten years or so.
Janet, I miss you.
And then there are the people who aren't really looking at you, which might run ...
