Mother’s Comforting Gray Gun :: Personal Narrative Profile

Mothers 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 automobile 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 occur along the profile of my mothers 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. octad 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 ful l three seconds to slide her advanced 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 substantiating she stole after watching Farah Fawcett in Charlies Angels. She would run through the exercise many more times before morning came. My mothers late night drills move 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 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 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.