I am working at a small grocery store near where I grew up. My father walks in carrying a mattress and a revolver. He comes directly to me, lays the mattress on the ground, and hands me the gun. I open my mouth to ask what is going on, but the gun goes off in my hand before I can speak.
Shot in the stomach, my father falls backward onto the mattress. He is bleeding badly, but a serene expression covers his face. I kneel by him with the gun hot in my hand. Weeping bitterly I ask him what this means, and why he brought these things here. His only answer is, “It had to be this way.”
