Bang
He’d just gotten a haircut. Bang.
She was an exchange student from Pakistan. Bang.
He was the world’s best son. Bang.
She was his sister. Bang.
He was fifteen. Bang.
They came to the United States to escape violence in their home countries of Eritrea, Iran and Vietnam. Bang. Bang. Bang.
She loved the Dallas Cowboys. Bang.
It was her first time in a gay nightclub. She was with her uncle who she called Guncle. Bang. Bang.
He was 25, one week away from finishing his internship. Bang.
They were Mexican. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.
They had twelve great-grandchildren. Bang. Bang.
He was a standout athlete. Bang.
They were at a prayer service and invited him to join them. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.
She was 86. Bang.
They were Black. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.
The baby was alive under his mother’s body, covered with her blood. Bang. Bang.
He was visiting from Germany. Bang.
He was shot by police. Twenty-eight bangs.
They were gay. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.
He was protecting his wife and grandchild. Bang. Bang. Bang.
He was an off-duty police officer. Bang.
They were twenty children, ages six and seven years old. Too many bangs.
He was a bus driver. Bang.
She was his mother. Bang.
He was a Petty Officer, Third Class. Bang.
She was his girlfriend. Bang.
He dreamed of becoming an art teacher. Bang.
She was the last victim to be shot. Bang.
She thought about bringing her pistol to work the night before. Bang.
He was three. Bang.
He saw the shooter brushing his teeth in the bathroom moments before. Bang.
She begged for her life. Bang.
They were watching Trainwreck. Bang. Bang.
She was pregnant. Bang. Bang.
They had sixty-three combined years working for UPS. Bang. Bang. Bang.
They were at home, eating dinner. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.
Our president sang Amazing Grace.
by Margo Jodyne Dills
January 2019
