That Time I Disarmed an 81 Year-Old
I missed the memo, boot camp, and online course for this one
I favor writing pieces that are peppered with humor. It’s a thing I do to foster my own renewed perspective, and offer evidence that tragedy plus time equals comedy. Sadly, that equation sometimes fails. One such event I endured has escaped the slightest crack of a smile. However, storytelling offers a uniquely human gift that moves us closer to letting the light in. I think I’ll give it a try.
Just thinking about the event brings a visceral, sick feeling and a flood of saliva that always preps my mouth before getting sick. I’ve come to know this is anxiety brimming over the top trying to find a way out.
Mom called and told me my dad was cleaning his gun at the kitchen table when she got home from church. Yes, cleaning his gun…the same gun that had rarely been seen by any of us, and had not been fired in multiple decades. It sat idle safely snuggled in a fleece-lined zippered pouch up in his closet. The gun had a trigger lock and the keys were in a hiding place. The bullets were also stored somewhere far away from the gun.
My dad was a responsible gun owner. This was how the gun was managed in our house when I was growing up. Now that I’m an adult I have chosen to have a gun-free house.
