I was exhausted, post Flu, after driving three kids to California during the weekend, when my two youngest and my niece begged for a bedtime story.
Slowly in the dark, I began to spin a tale, a non-fiction piece, actually, knowing it was easier to borrow than to have to create.
Halfway in and gathering steam, I was hearing all these pops and clicks. "What IS that?" I asked (not very nicely).
"A gun," said Rees, eight.
Honestly, I was too tired to get up and turn on the light and see what he was talking about. So I yelled, "Mac!" and my seventeen-year-old brother busted down the bedroom door, to see what I was panicking over.
"Please," I mumbled into my pillow. "Take. The gun. Away. From Rees."
Mac flicked on the light and Rees handed over the busted pellet gun. Then the paint gun. The dart guns. A BB gun. And three toy rifles.
I laughed myself wide awake seeing Mac in the doorway with guns under his arms, pinned to his sides, between his knees.
"What is this?" he said. "An arsenal?"
FALL 2015 TOUR
1 year ago