Mother’s Comforting Gray Gun :: Personal Narrative Profile

Mothers Comforting Gray Gun I invest on my side with one socked foot dangling off the borderline 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 bullet and machine oil I had never seen them used anywhere except 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 mothers distinctive hoist. The Torres Nose, a nose passed down from her father and his father before him--a nose I am instantly glad I did not inherit. She lay perfectly quiesce looking beautiful and peaceful, hands at her sides as if asleep.I knew better, mommy 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 at a lower localize her pillow. It took a full three seconds to slide her right hand up under her compass point, 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 protuberance out her leg to the side, a move I am electropositive she stole after watching Farah Fawcett in Charlies Angels. She would run through the practice many more times before morning came. My mothers 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 accord faster.The first Saturday morning of the month, if she hadnt 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 whi le an old woman with discordant eyes sat in a folding chair dependable a box fan. I shuffled my feet along the floor making shekels noises with my shoes as I went. The linoleum was grainy with dirt that or so hid the checkerboard pattern. As my mother placed her order, I used the black and white tiles to play my own version of hopscotch.