I once killed a rabbit. For a boy.

It’s something that I think about a lot now that we’rve broken up.  It’s the image that pops into my head more than anything.  I don’t see those blue eyes I loved.  I don’t see us together happy.  I see that cute little bunny.  Dead.

You have to understand, while I am from Kansas, I never felt like a real Kansan.  I never lived on a farm, I’m not conservative and while I’m not completely opposed to religion, I certainly don’t feel like I belong with a lot of the Kansas Christians, even though they continue to pray for my soul. 

And unlike many of the brave Kansans, I never shot my dinner.  I never even imagined that I would go hunting or fishing or anything that involved killing something. 

Then I met him.  Suddenly, I found myself wearing cowboy boots and pearl snap shirts and when I was really tired, I had that Kansas drawl.  So it wasn’t a surprise, when a year and a half after meeting him, I found myself in the middle of nowhere, staring at nothing, with a bow and arrow in my arms.  Yes, I was bow hunting.

“We just wait?” I asked.

“Yeah, you just wait,” he answered.

“Like, all day?”

“No, not all day.  Just until we find something to shoot.”

I guess when it was put that way, I didn’t mind waiting.  Not only did I not have any intention of shooting something, I didn’t want to see something die.

“It’s the circle of life,” my small town Kansas boy told me, “You know our ancestors got their food this way.”

“But there is this really neat thing now,” I answered, “It’s called a grocery store.”

“That’s boring,” he replied. 

 This was too, I thought, but there was no reason to argue.  He had been bow hunting since he was a wee little boy.  It was the way people did things in Kansas.  Real Kansas that is.