“Hando, show me how to load that gun”, I tells and ask him
“that gun”, I says to him – “the one displayed on the wall”
“that one” he asks me and I tells him “yes”
…and he tells me “okay” –
“Tells me about how you and mum met”, I say and ask –
“long ago, I fell in love with your mother –
hair golden like sunshine, aye –
an attitude and demeanor to knock any man off his high-horse –
she’d paint the air and the sky blue –
and she meant everything to me” – he says – and I tells him –
“I miss her, too”. And he turns away for a moment –
because he has to
“I want to learn how to shoot the gun – that gun”, I tells him –
and he says “okay”
“her smile was enough to make a man weak in the knees –
the kind of lass men can’t say ‘no’ to – impossible –
your mother was that kind of woman”, he tells me
and I hold the 9 mm in my hand and listen to his story –
“I want to be famous – famous for something bad”, I tells him –
and it’s like he doesn’t hear me –
he’s lost in thought – he’s been lost since it happened –
since it happened to her
“is it from the war?”, I asks him and he tells me “yes” –
“was it a Nazi that fired it?”, I asks him and he tells me “yes”
“124 grain ball” he tells me – and I don’t knows what he is talking about –
“Okay”, I says and I say very little else
“tells me about my mum”, I says and ask,
while polishing the gun with care and with purpose –
“her smile was ice cream and rainbows”, he tells me…
“I wonder how many this gun has killed”, I ponder and thinks aloud –
“I dunno” the man says – “too many, I suppose, most likely”, he tells me
“Cain”, the man tells me – “be careful with that”, he says
…I look at him and smile and says,
“she loved you very much – you were her everything too”…
the man smiles – and looks away – because he has to –
I load the bullets into the gun –
because that is what I do now
the sun is setting and it’s not brilliant or memorable…
“tell me about my mum” I tells him and ask,
as I learn to take aim and prepare for the recoil –
“her hair smelled like apricots on a warm spring day –
and her smile was li…”
his body and what is left of his head lounges sloppily half-on, half-off the living room couch
and I have no more words to say
because I don’t need to say
Photo: Jimmy Broccoli wish his washboard.
