Shooting in the Dark

your first son has a three hundred piece collection hoping he can assail the pain of your memory and your second son keeps searching for you in a series of mothers for his children and I baptised my son, who was himself born on your lost husband's, his grandfather's birthday, and consecrated a chapel in Tuscany that same date in late May when, 39 years ago, at point blank range you, blonde beauty, life of the party, last woman standing, too bright, bored stiff, prize winning horse woman and expert marksman, were guaranteed not to miss.