10/05/2026
There is a strange thing about the last time you shoot with someone.
You seldom know it's the last.
That morning began with the familiar sound of a gun being taken from its case.
The smell of oil.
The click of the action being checked.
The soft clatter of shells being set upon the bench.
Nothing about it seemed important enough to remember.
And yet, somehow, I remember nearly all of it.
We walked out together into the cool morning air.
The field was still wet with dew, and a thin mist hung low beyond the trees.
We had come to shoot a few rounds, nothing more.
There was no particular occasion.
No great reason.
Just two people doing something they had done many times before.
He stood beside me at the station.
We talked about nothing.
The kind of nothing that becomes important only after it is gone.
A little teasing.
A little laughter.
An occasional comment about a missed target.
Then came the call.
The target flew.
The gun rose.
A shot cracked across the field.
The clay disappeared into a cloud of orange dust.
And for a moment, everything was exactly as it should have been.
We kept shooting.
Sometimes he missed.
Sometimes I did.
Sometimes one of us would turn and grin after a particularly good shot, as if we had accomplished something far greater than breaking a little piece of clay thrown into the sky.
That's the way it is with people who have shared enough years together.
You don't need much of an excuse to enjoy being there.
The shooting is only the excuse.
The real thing is the company.
The morning passed more quickly than either of us realized.
Eventually there were only a few shells left.
I remember thinking we should probably shoot them up rather than carry them home.
So we did.
One target.
Then another.
Then one more.
And finally, it was quiet.
The gun was opened.
The last shell was gone.
We stood there for a moment, looking across the field.
Neither of us knew.
That was the last time.
If I had known, I would have asked for one more round.
I would have stayed a little longer.
I would have listened more carefully to the sound of his voice between shots.
I would have laughed at every missed target.
I would have remembered the way the morning light fell across the field.
I would have tried to memorize the sound of those gunshots—not because they were loud, but because they were ours.
But I didn't know.
How could I?
The last time almost never announces itself.
It doesn't arrive with a warning.
It doesn't ask you to pay attention.
It simply passes by disguised as an ordinary day.
And then, sometime later, you realize you have been carrying the last moment without knowing it.
You still have the gun.
You still have the shells.
You can still walk out to that same field.
You can still hear the wind moving through the grass.
But something is missing.
Someone is missing.
And you finally understand that the targets never mattered as much as you thought they did.
Neither did the score.
Neither did who broke the most.
The thing worth keeping was the morning.
The laughter.
The quiet between shots.
The person standing beside you.
So if you have someone you shoot with today, don't rush through it.
Take your time.
Talk between rounds.
Laugh at the misses.
Stay for one more target after you're ready to quit.
Because someday, you may open that gun case again and realize that the most valuable thing you ever carried onto that field wasn't a gun at all.
It was a memory you didn't know you were making.
And you would give anything—
anything—
to hear that familiar voice beside you again.
To hear the call.
To see the target rise.
To hear the shot.
And then, just for one more morning, to turn around and see that person standing there beside you.
The way they always had.
Before you knew it was the last time.
