You tell yourself you won’t put the gun in your mouth while your mother is alive. She couldn’t survive outliving you, the cost of her neglect. You’ve learned to leash your pain, like it’s one of your dogs, eager to follow a scent into deep woods.
Still, you don’t want to take any chances, so you keep the pistol locked in its leather case, out of reach behind boxes of old letters stashed in the garage. You take the gun out of its box, study its anatomy. Your finger curls around the trigger easily. The weight in your hand makes you someone who has answers.
You walk your dogs along the river. Eager to swim, they pull, straining the rope. No one else is on the path this early. You bend down, unhook the leash from their collars, and they rush into the water. When you call them back they wriggle to you, tongues out, chests and legs dripping as they circle around you for treats.
Your mother’s doctors tell you it won’t be long. Months instead of years. She fusses at you, the fear in her voice louder now. You bring her blankets, cups of tea. The room is crowded with her regrets. You squeeze her hand, listen to her breathe.
When at last, despite a late summer hurrah, your mother fades into her long sleep, you step into the garage, hold cool metal to your cheek. You are surrounded by your mother’s clothes, waiting to be sorted. Chiffon blouses and faded wool coats, silk scarves and shoes with worn-down heels spill out of bags you’ve lugged from her room. You could save the newer items for Goodwill, but you know everything will end up in the dump.
Nails scrabble at the door, followed by yaps and whines. You put the gun back in its leather coffin and whistle for your dogs.
