Shot fifteen times, clutching
his chest, he fell over the
the railing and tumbled into
the flower garden now brown
in the winter’s coldness. He
lay lifeless but still breathing
rapidly. After a few seconds
miraculously he arose from
the dead and without even
brushing off the wood chips,
somersaulted and swerved his
way around the next wave
of bullets. He jumped behind
the lone Maple in the front
yard, drew his gun and
unleashed a barrage of
bullets that no enemy
could ignore or survive. Smiling
and full of himself and his
virtue, he knew the good guy
had won again. The storm
door opened, his mother
called to him not to
get his “Going to Church
Clothes” dirty. In her
hand she held a Sunday
School pin with the inscription
“Jesus Paid it All,” and said,
“Don’t forget your perfect
attendance pin.” Fifty-five
years later, a scrawny kid
broke a window, climbed
through, hauling his arsenal,
entered the classroom and
blasted the enemy – twenty
some first graders — to
smithereens. His mother
wasn’t there to tell him to
get ready for church. She had
five bullets in her head. The
man who had had fifteen shots
to the chest years and years ago
and who had survived so many
battles between the Cavalry and
the Indians also taking place
in his parents’ front yard sat
in the coffee shop watching
a man on TV say that the
way to stop a bad man
with a gun is a good man
with a gun and
wondered.