My father's hell-bent on holding onto bullets from a gun he hasn't fired since he liked Ike. A few dozen .22 calibers have broken loose from their boxes in the back of the closet. We're cleaning out for the big move. The last push inland, so to speak. Dad has halted the operation to take on a new task – slowly reassembling the flimsy cardboard boxes and stacking each bullet back in line as if he were handling dynamite. Soldiers four deep in rows of six. My mother raises her eyebrows and we fall back to our positions at the kitchen table. We say nothing waiting in the sun, which is hot for early March, magnified by the big picture window.
the stage of their lives
left to chance