I am 11, maybe 12, messing around in our garage with my younger brother in Waco in the winter. It’s too cold to play outside. The garage is full of construction supplies our dad is storing there, supplies we’re not supposed to play with. We are playing with them. There’s a tank — green metal, paint spattered — with a long, plastic spray gun attached.
I pick it up.
“Hey David,” I say, so he’ll look.
Then I shoot him in the face.
My non-review of Tree of Life, Behold, I am vile; what shall I answer Thee?