Every sound, no matter how loud of soft, stood out. Bees buzzing around the flowers. Cars on the freeway a few blocks over. Muffled by the hedges around my house, but always there. A humming bird, graciously inspecting the feeder I had hung out front for him. Inspecting, but, as usual, not drinking. Perhaps he thought there was too much star anise, as well. And Mrs. Chalmers up the street, listening, as always, to Bach.

The feel of the mug in my hand. Made for me by my son. The imperfections in its shape. Places where the paint had dripped. A rough spot where his little 5-year-old fingers left a small fingerprint. And, along with that realization, the feel of the bullet pushing it’s way through the padding on my lawn chair, into the back of my head, through flesh and bone.

Such an amazingly wonderful revelation of the world around me, cut short for reasons I will never know.