Not every trigger is on a gun.

Sometimes it is an action movie with explosions and car chases. My eyes close just before the cars collide.

Sometimes it is an eggplant in the middle of the store. The soft, purple flesh, bruised from a seatbelt.

Sometimes it is feeding a fire and being hit in the face with smoke from an engine.

Sometimes it is a nature show. Watching deer walk silently through the woods, bears awakening from hibernation, trees falling with such force that they fracture like bones.

Sometimes it is walking around the hospital and stumbling upon the labor unit. Hearing the familiar howls of pain as babies are pulled from their mothers and she is pulled from the car.

Sometimes it is waiting in line at the DMV. Watching the clock. Waiting for my number to be called and knowing that this is deja vu.

Sometimes it is hearing sirens rush by while I'm shopping and wondering if the socks I've just picked up, are the same shade of blue as her face in the back of the ambulance.

The trigger is on the neck of the bottle that puts me to sleep, when the barrel reaches my lips.

It is time to pull the trigger and empty the bullets into my grief and sorrow. I will lay them to rest in the plot beside my wife. Watching them flourish with forget me nots.