Mother’s Comforting Gray Gun :: Personal Narrative Profile

Mother’s Comforting Gray Gun I lay on my side with one socked foot dangling off the edge of the bed, looking down at Mom on the floor. She lay on a pallet of itchy, green army blankets my dad "borrowed" from his tour in Vietnam. No matter how many times they were washed, the blankets always smelled like smoke and machine oil; I had never seen them used anywhere but the floor. It took a while for my eyes to adjust to the dark, but when they finally focused, I could easily follow along the profile of my mother's distinctive nose. The Torres Nose, a nose passed down from her father and his father before him--a nose I am now glad I did not inherit. She lay perfectly still looking beautiful and peaceful, hands at her sides as if asleep. I knew better, Mom never slept when Dad worked out of town, she was practicing. Eight seconds was the time to beat, and if anyone could beat it, it was my mother. Mom had a steely determination much like the .357 Magnum kept under her pillow. It took a full three seconds to slide her right hand up under her head, two seconds to secure her palm around the grip and place her finger on the trigger, another two seconds to roll up on one knee, and one second more to steady herself by jutting out her leg to the side, a move I am positive she stole after watching Farah Fawcett in Charlie's Angels. She would run through the exercise many more times before morning came. My mother's late night drills continued until 1983. That year, our city established emergency 9-1-1 service, and Mom believed the police could now protect us from would-be intruders. Still, she bragged her response time was a lot faster. The first Saturday morning of the month, if she hadn't stayed up practicing the night before, Mom and I would head over to a turquoise-and-pink cinderblock building that sold baked goods, tennis shoes, candles, cassette tapes, and meat. Spanish polkas played on the radio while an old woman with mismatched eyes sat in a folding chair near a box fan. I shuffled my feet along the floor making scraping noises with my shoes as I went. The linoleum was grainy with dirt that nearly hid the checkerboard pattern. As my mother placed her order, I used the black and white tiles to play my own version of hopscotch.