I often wished I had said something to him because it seemed we had a lot in common still, after all he was at Comfest and marching in Pride just like myself.  I often thought that if I saw him at Comfest again I would speak to him.  I would ask how he was doing, how his photography was going and tell him I heard him on the radio and maybe even see a picture of his child.  I often thought that his signature smirk had showed on his mouth that day and perhaps he had seen me too.  But as years grow between two people they become even more of strangers than they ever were that day on the bench at high school.

          This is the part where I missed Dale.

          I’ve been an artist at the Lilyfest for four years now.  Our art teacher, mine and Dale’s, has been returned to the earth for four years as well.  There is nothing linking me to the Lilyfest and its people except a faint memory of a mention of my name to his wife who now is the sole proprietor of the estate and the familiarity of things that I pass in the garden.  A Victorian ball placed discreetly beneath the shade of the trees, a band of pink flamingos peering out from the lilies…these are things that make me feel at home and take me back to that place in the art room long ago.  “If Mr. Bishop were here,” these things make me say, “he’d know.”  But he wasn’t there.  So how could I know? 

          I was standing next to a table of Bonsai trees adjusting my camera when they walked by.  I looked up and caught the backside of two huge Vikings strolling along, steins at their side, helmets and some fur.  I thought to myself to go after them and ask for a picture but, as always, talked myself out of it and thought I’d get one when they came back around to my booth. 
 

         But they never came back.