The Gun Was Heavy
The other night I dreamed I was setting in a dimly lit living room with my father. I cannot say it was any living room I've ever known, but that's the way it is in dreams.My father was sitting in a handsome leather recliner. The stitching was ornate – pinched with thick white stitching that crisscrossed and created a rise.
Dad had a gun to his head. A pistol. I didn’t know what kind, but I don’t know much about guns.
I was shocked but acted otherwise.
“Wow,” I said, “I was hoping to inherit that. I don’t want it all filled with blood. I’ve never seen that pistol before. Let me see that.”
I was thinking about the other kids. They were young and running around. I didn’t know these kids but they were my siblings. I was glad that they didn’t have to hear the shot. I was glad to know that they wouldn’t have to run in on the bloody corpse of their father.
He handed me the gun. It was ornate and heavy. Very heavy. I can still feel its weight in my hands. It had a snubbed barrel. It looked like some sort of pirate weapon.
Upon closer inspection, I realized that the gun wasn’t even loaded. I berated him for his cowardice. I hated him for trying to steal emotions from me. Though my love for my father never changed, my concern, then relief/anger, kept me from showing that I did care.
We don’t do stunts.
<< Home