I wanted to paint this response to one of my favorite poems as if it were like an icon. I hoped to reflect the things a child holds dear.
RED RYDER RIFLE
I remember the day my brother
put down his Red Ryder Rifle.
“I’m too big for kid games,” he said.
He stood, ducking his head,
exiting the door to our fort.
I pleaded, “Don’t go,”
but my brother was through the door.
Then taunted,
“what’s the matter- too big to play with me now?”
The voice of a child could not bring him back.
For my brother it was no longer a choice.
He shook off his childhood
as though the fit weren’t right.
I watched as he strode ‘cross uncle’s pasture toward giggling
girls
huddled at the gate,
speaking in whispers I could not understand.
My brother understood.
He walked stiffly,
his creased jeans barely breaking line.
It occurred to me, he walked like my father.
The door closed.
For a moment I was sad,
and then I remembered the Red Ryder Rifle.
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