A Letter To A Lover
Written January 2016
The first time I saw you, I was afraid of you. Would you hurt me? Cause me pain or bring me unexpected joy? Growing up, I never knew anybody like you on my side of town. I’m sure that had I tried just a little harder, you wouldn’t have been hard to find. Asking any of the cholos on the corner probably would’ve led me to you. But had we met under those circumstances, our relationship would’ve been undeniably different.
You were handed to me in boot camp. There was no small talk, no awkward introductions. I was just stuck with you for the next three months. I resented you at first. Your 7 pounds felt like dead weight every time I had to march in a box with you and move you in fancy positions for show. But as the weeks passed and I was forced to sit down with you and clean you, I resented you less and less. I realized there was more to you than just the color of your skin. I found a sense of peace and stillness in discovering your different compartments and layers and what made you “click pop.”
The time finally came when we had to perform together on the rifle range. There were several positions we took as we got to know one another: the sitting, the kneeling, the standing, and the prone. Settling into place, I supported you with my left hand on your hand guards. My right arm rotated and came down enclosing your buttstock into the pocket of my shoulder while my hand slid up your pistol grip. I held on tightly, keeping my finger straight and off your trigger. It wasn’t time yet. Once given the order by the tower, I pulled your charging handle back and made you ready with a 5.56mm round. I placed my cheek on your buttstock and aimed in, flicking your safety lever to semi. I closed my left eye, took a deep breath in, breathed out slowly, and in that instant, I learned all it takes is a moment of stillness and a steady pull of your trigger to make you explode. Your recoil didn’t hurt me. Your explosion wasn’t deafening. In fact, they reassured me that I was treating you right. We were a team and I felt powerful with you in my hands.
But our fun was short lived, as we were soon being herded off the rifle range and back to the armory for more cleaning. Cleaning you wasn’t difficult. I knew all your layers intimately. You opened up easily as I pressed the pins between your upper and lower receiver. I removed your bolt carrier group giving me access to the parts of you that were normally hidden away. I attentively alternated between brushing and wiping away the gun powder residue. My fingers traced your grooves and contours as I gave you one last CLP-soaked caress from muzzle to buttstock before I turned you in.
Our time came to an end when I graduated boot camp. It was a bittersweet moment. You were my first love. You taught me so much about patience, empowerment, and teamwork. But alas you could not come with me. I’ve had many lovers like you since, similar – all dressed in black, of course, and each one seven pounds of dead weight – but still different. Some were older than others, and the years of being passed onto from Marine to Marine had not been kind to them. But each new you was always there for me as my safety net and my constant companion, guarding my life in Iraq and Afghanistan. No matter how many lovers I’ve had since I left you, you're irreplaceable, for nothing compares to a lover like you.
