Lower The Weapons
I now see rifles in the hands of the lunatics of ISIL, shooting up into the air at the funerals of their brothers of faith, among children that do not aim at a can like we did when little, but rather at the heads of enemies; I see American teenagers buying home-delivered weapons with their PayPal accounts like a person buying pants or a video games, and they open fire at institutes and colleges, massacre after massacre.
I now see rifles in the hands of the lunatics of ISIL, shooting up into the air at the funerals of their brothers of faith, among children that do not aim at a can like we did when little, but rather at the heads of enemies; I see American teenagers buying home-delivered weapons with their PayPal accounts like a person buying pants or a video games, and they open fire at institutes and colleges, massacre after massacre.
At my grandparent’s farm, there was a shotgun resting in a corner, between the entrance furniture and the wall. After finishing a meal, when there were good conditions, we would go out to the yard to rest under the vines and practice our shooting. We would put an old can on the wall that divided the garden and the cornfield, about 15 meters from where we stood at the rail. Just over 10 years old, my grandfather taught me to open the barrel to put in the pellets, to hold the gun against my shoulder, place my feet correctly, contain my breath when the finger touched the trigger and look at the can far way between the aim, but mostly how to point to the ground when I held the gun in my hands, being extremely careful – this is not a toy, they said -, and to raise it only when I wanted to shoot. With the distance the years give and the bundles of cotton the 21st century has indoctrinated us to pamper our children with, it all seems rash. It was another time and we had fun that way.
I have not held a gun since then. My friends invite me to go hunt in the English country, to kill pheasants and geese, but I always end up turning down the offer. I now see rifles in the hands of the lunatics of ISIL, shooting up into the air at the funerals of their brothers of faith, among children that do not aim at a can like we did when little, but rather at the heads of enemies; I see American teenagers buying home-delivered weapons with their PayPal accounts like a person buying pants or a video games, and they open fire at institutes and colleges, massacre after massacre. I see that and it discourages me. Of the excitement and the nervousness I felt while holding my breath, with a steady hand, looking at the can in the aim, nothing is left, just the memory.
