At the Vietnam Memorial

The last time I saw Paul Castle it was printed in gold on the wall above the showers in the boys’ locker room, next to the school record for the mile. I don’t recall his time, but the year was 1968 and I can look across the infield of memory to see him on the track, legs flashing, body bending slightly beyond the pack of runners at his back. He couldn’t spare a word for me, two years younger, junior varsity, and hardly worth the waste of breath. He owned the hallways, a cool blonde at his side, and aimed his interests further down the line than we could guess. Now, reading the name again, I see us standing in the showers, naked kids beneath his larger, comprehensive force—the ones who trail obscurely, in the wake of the swift, like my shadow on this gleaming wall.