Saturday, December 22, 2012


A boy wonders if the gun pressed to his stomach like a cold hand should be dropped into the slot. He touches his hand to the cold blue mailbox. Then, for a moment, he wonders if pressed the trigger will expel confetti from the barrel. It is after all his birthday. Thirteen today. He shakes his head, no, that could never be. What a young fool. Act your age, he says. And drops the gun in the slot. BANG, it says. But a muted bang, from the gun striking the inside of the blue mailbox. The boy feels like mourning, as if his ribs have been struck. He scuffs the sidewalk home, where suddenly he grows old and falls into bed. His hair white, long and frail, his hands white, long and frail, his eyes...the boy, now very old and near death (who knows how many years), closes his lids as afternoon drops into evening, the sky a cold blue. The sun soon touches the horizon outside the bedroom window, where he cannot see. It might be something like foolish sleep, like confetti.