I was young, then, with a vivid imagination and marked dedication to playing make believe. We walked down the row, scattering rocks and dusting off the silhouettes. I tossed aside a chipped, white stone. Years later I would recognize it as limestone and even develop a certain fondness for it. When all of the iron silhouettes were standing again, we made our way back across the field through the brush. It was something between a tradition and a routine, lost in the limbo of recurring events. Almost an hour of driving into what seemed like void desert terrain that somehow escaped suburbanization outside of the city. I grabbed a handful of bullets and loaded the rifle. My rifle. A gift my father had given me, a .22 long rifle. I set the rifle down on the table, safety on, and stepped away. We always had fun, but there was a very serious undertone about the whole ordeal. It was unspoken, simply understood. It's fun, but it's not play time. Respect the weapon for what it is. A w
a direct line to my brain