Power and Shame

         It was a beautiful day. Sunlight tickled patches of grass in the shade of the apple, lilac, peach and willow trees that grew in the backyard of late, Great Grandma's house, “the old house” as our family will forever remember it. The temperature was indistinguishable, perfect for daydreams, and discovery. Looking back, I can almost hear the gentle, rhythmic breeze sweeping through the tops of all those trees. It must have been early summer.

         I loved my cap gun, and the supreme power that came with it. With the right sized cap, it seemed I could shoot the whole world down. Bang, you’re dead. Even the wind would stop, making the trees quiet, for just a moment, and I was in charge of nature itself.

         This particularly gentle day would be sliced by the sound of the loudest bang yet, I would make certain of it. I had become bored of those brought from just one cap, bored as my gun was tarnished, so I folded two of the paper caps onto themselves, aligned their dark, secret spots and fired. I could not decide what was more delightful: the explosion, or the silence that followed. Astonished by this result, I took the natural course and prepared to realize its fullest extent.

         Three caps were, without dispute, better than two. Four had me laughing out loud, and in the wicked way. I could taste the blue smoke. Such a beautiful blue it was. I skipped five and seven were giving me trouble, as the trigger failed to bring the hammer of my six-gun back far enough to sufficiently smash the fat wad of red, white, gray and pungent potential. Another breeze moved through the trees, and I even heard the lonely chirp of an anxious sparrow.

         The mass was too great; it simply needed to be thinner to allow the hammer to do its job. I pressed it between my fingers, applying steady pressure. This didn’t help, and I heard another chirp. My command over nature was waning.

         As I bit down I had the beginning of a thought, or perhaps an important memory, which was interrupted by the loudest explosion that I had, at that time, ever experienced. Later, in sixth grade, I would be nearly knocked out by a punch from Kenny Bedoya, and in those hazy moments on the asphalt portion of the school playground, I would have the same interrupted thought.

         I spit out the hot pieces first. Small bits of paper would remain stuck to the sides of my cheeks and tongue until I could regain feeling and notice them. I ignored the ringing in my ears as I checked, repeatedly, to make sure my teeth were still there. It was hard to tell.

         I had inhaled the cap smoke with a startled gasp, and coughed continuously. I wanted to cry. I wanted to cry the kind you cry when you’re scared, when you want to take it all back, but I didn’t want anyone to come out of the house and ask questions, so I stifled it. With my ears still ringing I looked around, nervous and in pain, to make sure there weren’t witnesses. Again, the sparrow chirped.