A.A.A. - Epilogue

Under his bed, W. kept four shotguns. “Get rid of them,” his wife said upon finding them. “I don’t want them in here.” 

That was all he left—not money, nor land, artwork, and bonds. Four shotguns, one for each grandson. They sent around the photo: the Winchester 190 .22 in its original box; the Remington .35; the 1960’s Mossberg 12-gauge; and the one from his father, the 1940’s Mossberg .22. 

The grandsons divvied them up, planning the shipments to Illinois and California. In the back closet were two BB guns that nobody wanted and were dumped in the trash with his files, clothes, pills, and shoes. 

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The wind came through the swamp and shifted the metal cans perched along the back fence. He held the gun against his shoulder. His cousin cocked it for him; at five his grip was not strong. Looking down the barrel, his hands shook as he maneuvered the sight to the can. “Aim above it,” the cousin said. “It shoots low.” Pull the trigger, the can went flying into the swamp. They cheered, then broke glass bottles with more shots, even taking aim at squirrels clambering up trees to safety. Inside, his great-grandmother poured whole milk into coffee mugs for them. The summer sun felt faded coming through the thick curtains and the air was heavy with cigarette smoke. That was what he remembered: the thickness of the air and milk, and the heaviness of the gun.

No. 050