In Memorial - Uncle Randy

I'm not good at staying in touch with people - lousy at it, in fact. There is the slightest possibility as well that I have the habit of distancing myself deliberately from people I really care about to avoid the hurt of loss.
It doesn't work.
I hadn't seen Randy in years. Not since a cousins wedding, which I arrived late to just as the bride was making her entrance onto the great sunbathed lawn of my grandmothers house. Sun on the screen door as it opened to the ramp, sun on her very white dress and beautiful face, sun on the chrome of Uncle Randy's scooter as he wheeled her to the top of the aisle to walk the rest of the way with her father. She is not afraid to be close to people, and tonight I think she'd likely weeping. I am too, although I don't feel I have the right. I feel like some one who's run to catch a train and found the tracks long since cold, a whistle in the distance the only evidence of loss. Randy was the most direct and strong person in my life, and I spent the entirely of my opportunity to experience him on the rim. He had been diagnosed with muscular dystrophy as a child but showed no worldly evidence of self pity, only a contempt for it. I loved him, and I'll miss him. But really, I feel like I kinda already did.