Hand Gun was first published in the Winter 2024 issue of October Hill Magazine
I make a gun with my fingers Point it toward my father And shoot.
The bullet catches him right between The eyes. He falls backwards Unto the carpet My big sister screams Mama goes in for the rescue I look with awe; Tears boil within me And I begin to bawl.
My father’s still and doesn’t get up My tears used to be the only way I’d get a response But now he’s “Gone…” Murmurs Mama.
I run to my room Put my head down And cry some more Hoping for Papa to wake up And come knock on my door.
Last year, my father and I didn’t talk for three seasons, from early spring to early winter. It wasn’t the first time we had shut off one another from our personal spheres, each too proud to apologize when problems got out of hand and we proceeded to hurt and break each other. This time I was adamant not to make up, standing firm in my belief that it was his turn to come forth and ask to be forgiven for the things he had said and the way he had handled a certain situation.
On his birthday, I went out with friends not to be present in the traditional, annual celebration. My sister called me and told me that he had read Hand Gun and had cried—my father had cried—as she had heard from my mother. A sense of urgency ran through my veins, and I asked a friend to drive me back home, stopping on the way to buy him a single long-stem rose.
When I arrived, I traversed the distance we had fortified between us for months, and hugged him tight as he whispered in my ears that he was only worried for me and he wanted me to be safe. I didn’t utter a word in reply; none was needed.
Hand Gun