Guns
September 3, 2024
Mamoo screamed when I aimed the pearl-handled revolver at her just before I pulled the trigger. I found the revolver while snooping in the top drawer of her dresser while she lounged in her bed, playing solitaire. I had some toy guns, so naturally, I thought it was a toy. I stuck my finger in the trigger guard and spun it around like I’d seen in the cowboy westerns. I clicked the hammer, spun around, and thought I’d prank my grandmother.
The bullet grazed her shoulder and lodged in the headboard. She sat up from her pink satin husband pillow. Her satin sheet was blood-stained. She grabbed some tissues and dabbed at the wound. Then, she gingerly motioned for me to come to her, no look of alarm on her genteel face. I was immobilized, petrified and horrified by what I had done. She smiled as only Mamoo could, took the revolver from my shaking hands, and pulled me to her ample bosom. That bosom, clad in a peach peignoir now stained one side in crimson, and smelling of powder and perfume, was always a sanctuary from anything scary.
I burst into tears. Mamoo just rocked me, saying it was okay. Then, she gently pushed me away, whispering something to me: in no uncertain terms, the gun went off while she was cleaning it. That was to be our story.
I nodded, whimpering. Mamoo would have no tears, though. Ever practical, she pressed her fingers beneath my tear ducts, telling me no boy of hers would cry over anything spilt, much less a little blood. She sent me to her white and black tiled bathroom for witch hazel, cotton balls, and a bandage. When I returned, trying to act like the man I wasn’t, I noticed she had slid the peignoir off her shoulder, exposing a slight gash caked with drying blood. I dabbed the wound with the cotton balls, blotted up the blood, and applied the bandage. She asked me in her well-mannered way to turn my back while she slipped out of the peignoir and slid her favorite coral dressing gown over her body. With a proper urgency, she stripped the bed, stuffing the bloodied sheets, clothing, and the cotton balls in an old lace pillowcase, hauling it onto the top shelf of the closet, behind half a dozen hat boxes. We changed the bed sheet, unlodged the bullet from the headboard, and plopped three pillows against the headboard to hide the damage. There went the evidence of a seven-year old’s curiosity.
An hour later, Momma came home from work. Nothing was said. Mamoo acted as graciously as she always did when Momma was around. After dinner, Mamoo said she was tired and going to bed, patting me on the shoulder, saying, “When you get old, you get tired faster.” The next day, Mamoo and I fixed the bullet hole, filling it with epoxy.
I buried my Momma without her ever knowing I almost killed her Momma.
