I lift the shotgun,
surprised by the weight
and intricate carvings.
I sight down the barrel,
aiming at an old soda can.
I squeeze the trigger.

The gun jerks into my shoulder,
recoil knocking off my earplugs.
The can jumps, hit by the birdshot.
It slips off the branch and rolls
down the steep hill behind my dad’s shop.

He smiles, and I hand the gun to him.
He slides over a lever with his thumb
and snaps the gun open easily—
a skill retained from his childhood
in Virginia—
and ejects the empty shell casings.
I inhale the sweet scent of gunpowder.

Again, I shoulder the gun.
Aim.
And fire.
Another can plummets from a sapling.
He grasps the weapon, reloads, fires two quick shots.
He hands it back to me, and I copy his movements.

We burned through a full box of bullets that day.
Neither of us missed.
Together, we revived a family tradition.

I still have the brass backing from that shell.
It rests on my desk.
A reminder.