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Guns
At one friend's home whole arsenals of guns litter the lawn—bright plastic shapes my sons pick their ways between to take proffered popsicles. Later, on evening news, words like "ambush," "strike," and "friendly fire" punctuate glowing clips of wreckage in far fields where other mother's children kneel to aim and pray. And though it's clichéd, truth be told, I wish one could keep her boys from growing old and going off to die. Toys need not rush us there. Instinct? No harm? An urge to hoist whatever's there, hard- wired within? Perhaps ignoble, I'm still glad when one spits on his own: They're bad.