four-year old beauty
hair almost comic book superhero blue in its blackness
huge inquisitive brown eyes, so dark that she appears to have no pupils
her tiny hands pull on the chipped, wooden knob
until the nightstand drawer slides out
revealing a new toy – black and shiny and heavy
so heavy that she uses both hands to pick it up and carry it into the hall
she gallops across the bedroom threshold to involve Mama in her discovery
sweaty and tired the mother stands at the end of the narrow tunnel that connects the two
bedrooms in their mobile home
sweaty and tired, she’s been scrubbing floors and at first doesn’t see her toddler
they’d watched a John Wayne movie the day before – a Sunday afternoon family ritual, Daddy loves the Duke
“Shoot Mama, bang-bang!” the child giggles.
Mama doesn’t naturally lean towards calm
instinctually - at this moment – she channels Ghandi or Mother Theresa or some other really patient person
that thing - in her baby’s hand - is no toy and she knows that there are bullets in its chamber
the too-young mother stands up straight, looks at her pint-sized unknowing life threatener, gulps, takes a tentative step forward and says, “Sweetheart, please give Mama the gun.”
“No, shoot Mama, bang-bang like John Wayne.”
Mama smiles, takes another step (this tiny hallway has never felt so long), “Darlin’ Mama really needs that gun.”
“No, no Mama. Shoot like John Wayne!”
Mama can’t contain herself much longer, she wants to scream
her legs are quaking and her breakfast is trying to escape her digestive system
slowly she takes 3 more steps toward her smiley gun-totin’ fairy child
embracing the little one with her left arm she grips the firearm with her other hand
the munchkin wiggles out of the embrace and scampers off in search of a new game
the mother melts onto the floor in terror and relief
she is overcome with sobs - she is a ball of emotion on the linoleum
the child is outside swinging around a tree and singing
that evening Daddy empties all his weapons of their ammo and places them on the highest shelves in the tiny tin-can trailer
the child has no recollection of the day she tried to be Jane Wayne
that day that could have changed everything
she does have an overly strong distaste for westerns
and a strangely physical repulsion to guns
their appearance makes her want to run and hide
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