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ArtifactAs long as I can remember you kept the rifle–your grandfather’s an antique you called it-in your study, propped against the tall shelvesthat held your many books. Upright,beside those hard-worn spins, it was anotherbackbone of your pas, a remnant I studiedas if it might unlock– like the skeleton keyits long body resembled– some door i had yetto find. Peering into the dark muzzle, I imagined a bulletas you described: spiraling through the boreand spinning straight for its target. It did not hit methen: the rifle I’d inherited showing mehow one life is bound to another, that hardshipendures. For years I admired its slender profile,until– late one night, somber with drink–you told meit still worked, that you kept it loaded just in case,and I saw the rifle for what it is; a relicsharp as sorrow, the barrel hollow as regret.
