I was eight the first time I got shot at.
If they had hit my leg like they tried, they'd have
Gotten my dad where it hurt the most,
As they promised.

An eight year old has no chance of explaining
Where a shot sounded like it came from.
No help to the officers.
An eight year old has no chance of keeping quiet
About the incident, so his mother won't cry.
No help to his father.
No shell. No projectile. No evidence. No protection.

I'll never grasp the courage it took them both
To let me out of the door every morning.
This was rural Norway. Nothing bad ever happened to anyone.
That's what
They'd think in the city; that the "jungle" was there.
It never was.
I wish my then young parents hadn't had to learn that.

I make a point of only nurishing nice memories when I'm with them.
(Only the fun shooting is referred to.)
And sometimes -when I remember-
I make a point of not limping.

I think they notice.


Every time.