Exposure

“My friend and I had gone to Jackson Hole. I packed all the gear and we hiked around for three days chasing the light. We followed our whims and photographed anything that inspired us. The flow of the light, animals, leaves, trees, the trail. The last night I’m exhausted, packing the film rolls in the dark. A flashlight goes off, and I start panicking, thinking all our hard work was ruined. I told her and cried. When it was processed, it was totally fine. But that’s how sensitive it is. It’s a risk, but a beautiful one.”

No. 100

Ledger

A Victorian fringe table lamp with green shade and walnut base. ($5; kept from grandmother’s last belongings.)

A piano tie left in a loose windsor knot. ($0.50; bought for a costume and worn half a night.)

A compact charcoal grill. ($30; used once, but the burgers burnt and lighting the charcoal left high anxiety.)

Two tennis racquets, one coming undone and needing stringing. ($15; stopped playing when the wires broke. Someone who knows how to fix bought.)

No. 096

A Few Laughs

At the comedy show a guy I knew in college sat next to me. An odd bit of serendipity, we caught up in the way false acquaintances in forced proximity do: grad school, interrupted thesis films, teaching for him; job, job, job for me; so-and-so left L.A.; someone else is at the agency; her ex is writing for an Emmy-winning comedian. Then, the man sitting in front of us turned around to introduce himself. He, too, had gone to the same college and remembered the guy beside me. There was a brief moment he said he remembered me, or at least seeing me once, though I couldn’t discern whether this was out of politeness or genuine remembrance. In the succeeding ten years I aged and now look quite unlike I did as a student. His name and likeness inspired zero memories, so it must have been the former.

No. 059

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. 

___

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

Echoes

Moisture hovers in the air around me, a suffocating, heavy stillness. Hair stands on the back of my neck—tactile electricity, like running my feet along my grandparents’ carpet. Eyes on the horizon: I’ve stood here before, there’s no reason to worry. Thunder echoes across the sky caused by lightning unseen.

No. 043