Drew Mosman

We’ll shoot guns after the new year, I’ll buy the Ruger and you’ll take your fathers rifle and we’ll drive just west of the pass, forest road that leads to a clearing of trees, overgrown with long grass, the whistle of my car will stop halfway and I’ll say thank you and you’ll turn the music up.

You look serious when you aim and I’ll watch your thin arms tremble when you pull the trigger, you’ll get real still and it’s like glass, I think to myself, watching you, you’re like glass or something similar, something earnest and something asking me to confess in that field right there. I want to and I want to watch your gaze turn towards me after lowering the gun and I want to drive back with one saved ammo box and I want us to witness something on that drive and never mention it, let it wash into the sunset and by the time we get back it’ll be dark and we’ll have forgotten.

At thanksgiving I walked with my father through his neighborhood and he asked me if you brought me closer to God. I thought of Mass every Friday as a child and walking from the school across the street, there would be two or three men that none of us knew that would attend, sit at the back and pray, those were crisp autumn days and afterwards we would race back and slam through the metal doors, find the classroom empty and peaceful and like it was waiting to be filled with life, we would fog up the windows and watch the rest of the kids walk over. I told him, yes, you did, in your own way.

We’ll leave the city like we always talked about, drive until we find a thunderstorm and then the nearest town, the nearest motel. I’ve been having dreams of something so close to this, something like your name tattooed on my forearm and your truck parked out front. We used to have so many reasons to leave, I used to have so many things to do and I feel lucky that I never got to them, lucky that at night you started responding to the words I would say in my sleep, guiding me down some path of forgiveness.

I am cruel and I hate myself and I lose everyday but I can see your face so clear and bright that it burns my retinas, I am often filled with regret but when I get down to it, when I sit at my desk at night I can see the patterns of my life unfold and I will apologize for hurting everyone I’ve ever been close to but I will never apologize for seeing God in the crumbling concrete foundation of our future house.