gun

The moment my dad lifted his gun, slowly and with the kind of aim

that comes with superior marksmanship, as my beau and I stood

watching, is a moment that replays in my mind; the corners of my

mouth turn up, and I smile the smile of a cop’s daughter whose

beau had better have a sense of humor. As I remember the scene: my

beau and I were in the living room of my dad’s house, out in the

sticks, about to depart, and the gun, if memory serves, had been

sitting on the dining room table, intended for this very moment. My dad’s

wife stood behind him, in the kitchen, trying as I was not to laugh, as the

gun and my beau, and my beau and the gun, and my dad and the gun, and the

gun and my dad, engaged in a Freudian Frenzy Any problems

you two need solving (Dad) and No, no, I think we’re good (beau)

and Oh, okay, (Dad) and the gun, and the black hole of the barrel,

and the twinkle in my dad’s eyes, and the stupid giddy feeling in my

chest, or maybe my gut, are the last things I feel in my being, see in

my mind’s eye, before leaving.