my first gun
I was the closest I’ve ever been to a bullet; my heart made easy prey of my rib cage. Sitting across from three white women, only a tray of 22 caliber bullets on the table between us, I noted the way the air began to pull away from my ears. My arms were floating, but my body stayed put. I realized my world became fantastical when suddenly I was inside, seated in a different, more plush chair, staring at the darkness of my hands. I thought my dog might be a comfort, but she seemed a bit frenetic in her movements. My big-hearted, black pup held my energy in her bones, rattled in my eyes. I’ve never shared space with a gun, visible to my eyes, yet was wildly discomforted by the sight of casualty around such destruction. I never have understood the fascination with guns, guns for sport, for play. Guns are weapons, hotly debated because of this playful attitude many carry inside these steel traps. Guns have stood between life and death, ushering black bodies to another realm, sometimes br