Shoot to kill.

Christoper Blossoms
Valentine's Week 2010

I was locked out of the house. I do not recall how this happened. I don't know why my sister wasn't with me. It was long ago and some fragments of detail have broken free from this memory. I do know that I was 16. Also, very important at the time, I owned a white bikini. I loved that white bikini.

We lived in the desert, just outside of Apache Junction. Our property bordered the Tonto National Forest. We were at the foot of the Superstition Mountains. The Lost Dutchman's Gold Mine was buried up there somewhere. The story of the Lost Dutchman was usually referenced in a comical sort of way, but I'd never been quick to dismiss such things. I was optimistic, but still unsure.

After living most of my life in Chicago, this was Wild West territory, for me. Mom had gone to Dallas. Dad grew a beard, shot rattle snakes, and decided to build his own house. When we were left at home alone, I was instructed to shoot to kill anyone daring to set foot on our property and come near my sister and me. I would always nod in agreement, but had secretly decided if such a situation occurred I'd go for the intruder's knees.

My English teacher was discussing poetry and she had my ear. We were experimenting with various forms and she responded to my work in a way that made me feel I had promise. I really needed that at the time. I think she knew. I'll never forget her.

I was a difficult student to engage. Fickle would be a generous description. But this felt different. It was as if the subject had been created for me. It didn't feel like work at all.

I daydreamed about words, placing them side by side, moving them from line to line, pronouncing them out loud, slowly, feeling every syllable, and then shaping and reshaping it all, over and over again.

So when I realized I was locked out, it wasn't such a big deal. The school bus had gone and even the dusty cloud it left behind was mostly settled. There wasn't much I could do. I decided to begin a new poem, hoping I'd be able to memorize it and write it down later.

It wasn't for class, it was for him. I was attempting to articulate my feelings. They say love at such a young age is not real love, but I disagree. Honestly, the core of what I believe to be love now and what I believed back then, they aren't so different.

I fidgeted and shifted about on a nice sized boulder until I felt comfortable, and then I began. I wrote and wrote, without paper or pen, and the time passed without my notice. I had not seen or heard a single thing for hours when Dad's truck broke through the quiet, kicking up gravel on our lonely road.

I looked up to a sinking sun, every dirty shrub and cactus glowing, and felt the air beginning to cool. I'd written a poem.

Was it for him, or for me? I'm not really sure. Both, I think.

I don't know what happened to my white bikini, but the poem, it stayed with me.

I remember each and every word.