A Swollen Bag

I was digging in the bottom drawer of my dresser the other day trying to sort what needs to stay and what needs to go, mostly to make room for the changeover from summer to winter. I hauled everything out and was momentarily startled by the discovery of a pistol tucked way down in the bottom under a blanket I’d stashed there some months ago. It is a particularly notorious weapon, as it features in the essay “My Own Private Arsenal” from my first book, One-Sentence Journal. Here is an excerpt where it appears:

9mm Pistol

In his final years, his health deteriorating, my dad liked to tell me that if he got too bad, he’d just “take care of himself.” He even had a gun and a plan for it, he claimed. Those were frightening conversations, even though they felt more like bluster. That said, I took this pistol off his desk a few days after he died in his sleep the morning of October 30th, 2014. Is this a gun he might have hefted in his hand and contemplated the idea of using to end his life? Thinking about that, holding it in my own hand, evokes a creepy, macabre sensation. It’s in my office closet too. I see it every time I turn the light on in there and look for anything on the shelf. I don’t have any ammo for the thing, nor do I even have a clip. It is, for all intents and purposes, inert and harmless, lacking any possibility of harm to anyone unless an effort was made to make it so. Of all the guns I own, this is the only one I’ve ever discussed selling. It’s the one that freaks me out a little bit.

The close reader will take note that this is the 11th anniversary of the awful morning referenced in the excerpt, at least it is as I am writing late in the evening, waiting for tomorrow’s travel laundry to at least hit the dryer before I call it a night. I’ve