You had to go at four o’clock, and it was Sunday. School tomorrow. We went to the beach – only an hour. We forgot the sting of the cold seawater biting at our toes as we talked, wandering down the shore. Summer, boys, pimples, belly fat. Life. It was crowded, a rare warm day, but we were alone together. I found a tiny sand dollar, small and white like the moon up, up in the night sky.
For a little while we sat on our blanket and ate pretzel sticks and drank juice boxes. Someone asked if you could take a picture of him with his friends. You did.
When it was four, you went back to your house, I went back to mine. It didn’t feel like Sunday then, this day, a present wrapped in yellow paper and tied with curly blue ribbon. Sundays aren’t supposed to be good days. They are homework and laundry and boredom and wishing.
We should do this again.