His Granddaddy's Shotgun

Ordinary enough, that night. It started out that way, anyhow. In fact, the details of the evening escape me up until the moment I walked into our bedroom to see him sitting on the edge of the bed, a shotgun sitting upright on the floor, right in front him, resting there like a third leg. The barrel of it pointing straight up.

"What the hell are you doing?" I asked him, tears already streaming down my face. We had been arguing that night about money, like we always did. He had been out of work for weeks and spent his days kayaking rather than job searching. The argument was typical. The circumstances were not new. The gun being introduced into the scene, now that was new. 

"I don't deserve to live. I can't find a job. Isn't that what you're telling me? If I can't work, I can't live?" 

"I'm not doing this," is all I could say as I left him like that, grabbing my purse and heading out the door.

I checked into the hotel down the street from our house. Once in the room, I lit up a cigarette and called 911. They took him in with no problems. Confiscated his granddaddy's shotgun, and put him in the local mental hospital for three days. That was the worst it ever got, and I didn't leave him right away, even though I should have. It's been a couple of years since we've spoken, but as far as know, he's doing just fine.

My Rock

Snow crunched under my boots as I walked into a small gathering of pine trees that morning. Not having been there before, I wasn't sure where I was headed, but soon enough found a clearing at the edge of the hill I walked upon. Finding a rock to sit on, I looked out over the pine covered hills, letting the view coax me into a reverie of thought. It didn't take long for the tears to fall. They had been quietly waiting for the right time to break free, and they cascaded rather somberly down my cheeks.

I was only fifteen at the time and attending a church sponsored ski trip. My mother and I had argued about my going. When she gave in to my selfish, teen-age reasoning, she said, "Go. Go ski for me. I've always wanted to do that." So I had done it. Not for her, but for me. There I was in the mountains, enjoying a vacation with friends and up until that moment, that moment on the rock, I had refused to think of her. She had been diagnosed with terminal cancer a few months earlier. The doctors didn't think she had much time left and they were right. I lost her two months after that ski trip. The rock of my life.