Friday, February 22, 2013

discursive

Years earlier, I'd stand up on the lowest rung of the fence, and listen to my grandpa. He'd talk straight through the whole thing, never missing a shot, and I'd follow every movement, shadow every gesture.
"You've got to be real careful, don't let anyone know where you are. It's a game."
"Like tag?"
"Little bit like tag."
"Like hide and seek?"
"More like hide and seek. You've got to aim low and aim good and then you've got to move fast, 'cause if you get caught then you know what happens."
My eyes widened. I shook my head. I had no idea what would happen but if grandpa said it was bad then I knew it was really bad. Grandpa was so brave he didn't even cry when he accidentally chopped off a finger with the cleaver, he just let grandma sew it up with her needle and went around like nothing at all was wrong.
"You've got to aim low and aim good and then you've got to move fast, 'cause if you get caught then they don't just put you in jail. They put you in the stocks on the middle of the town square, and people, they can kick you or throw things at you or do anything they want to you."
Sometimes grandpa told me things that were a little bit true and a little bit not true, but this time I believed him. There wasn't any funny twinkle in his eye, he kept aiming his gun and shooting as I stood there on the bottom rung of the fence.