I’m not sure how it became a topic, but it is. I know the rules. I know how it works. I know what it does. I know it’s kept in the drawer in the night table.
“Do you want to see it?”
I reach for the hard metal pull and the drawer glides open. We exchange glances as we view the weapon lying patiently for employment.
The metal is cold. I’ve held it before, yet it is heavier than I expect. It feels as powerful as I know it is. I place the firearm in her outstretched palms. We look at it with wide eyes.
“Are there bullets in it?”
I shrug my shoulders. She pushes the device back toward me. Carefully, I lift it from her hands and set it gingerly back in the drawer. I make certain it looks exactly as I found it. I know the consequence for breaking this rule.
We breathe a sigh of relief. The Thing is put away and we never have to hold it again if we don’t need to. Or want to. But if we do, we know where it is. Both of us.
We go back to playing things that little girls play before their parents come home with dinner and friends are sent home to their houses for dinner.
That day we walked away from the night table with the gun in it. And life went on. But what if it hadn’t?
And that’s where I stand on gun control . . . by a maple night table placed to the left of a double bed.
Peace . . .
