Spitball Army

I heard he’d jumped. I didn’t know what to feel. We’d recently met again, 30 years past 12th grade. I miss him; I hardly knew him.

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The wooden steps, supple in the warm season, creak and groan brittle protests as I climb to the deck. My cold bones ache, as well.

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Watercolor photo, year unknown.

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I’ll show you the ropes, he says to me, I can’t do this forever. I weigh his legacy vs. my dreams. He comes up short: my mistake.

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Printed on back: “MONTANA: Truly the Treasure State”

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