Our country should keep talking about guns
Two weeks before my oldest cousin’s twenty-third birthday, he shot and killed himself. It scarred our family. The kind of jagged, gnarled scar, like a poorly-filled pothole, that — even though it’s been nearly twenty years — you still run your fingers across from time to time and feel the sting of a fresh wound.
We weren’t all that close, but as a 14 year old, sorting through my own perceptions …
