Only Make Believe

Boot heels clicked firmly against kitchen tile.  I turned just in time to see his eyes narrow as he squeezed the trigger.  "Bang! Bang!" he whispered.

 

Soapy hands grabbed for the edge of the sink as, moaning and gasping, I began a slow downward spiral. The last thing I heard before sprawling grotesquely across the kitchen floor was his muffled laughter in the background.

 

Silence held us in its grip until, kneeling beside me, breath gently brushing my ear, he whispered, "Mama, make me peanut butter and jelly."

 

"I can't," I whispered back. "I'm dead."

"Not for real," he explained.

"No, only make-believe," I agreed.

"I didn't wake the baby this time," he announced proudly.

"No, you didn't."

"I used my inside voice to shoot you."

"You're a very good boy."

"Will you stop being dead and get up now?"

"This floor feels good. I think I may sleep here for awhile."

"No, Mama, get up! I'm hungry."

"Okay. First, I'll finish the dishes. Then, maybe we'll take sandwiches out to the back yard and have ourselves a picnic. Uh-oh, the baby is beginning to fuass. Do you hear her crying?"

"No," he lied, "I don't hear no baby crying, but, Mama, how long we gonna keep that baby anyway?'

"Forever," I say, as I stand and brush the latest death scene from my clothes. "We're going to keep that wonderful baby forever and ever."

"Will I always have to whisper when I shoot my guns?"

"No, because she'll grow big and run and play with you and you'll both be noisy."

"She can't have my Roy Rogers guns."

"That's okay.  Little girls don't much like guns.  They like dolls."

"Maybe I'll shoot her dolls."

"I'll be sad if you do."

"Mama, I'm gonna shoot you one more time while you're washing that pan, but you don't have to fall dead on the floor this time."

"Thank you."

"I'm just gonna shoot off one ear."

"If you shoot off my ear, I won't be able to wear my hair up in a pony tail anymore."

"I can't be worrying about your hair, Mama, Bang!  Bang!"

 

In today's world any self-respecting psychiatrist would shudder to think of a young mother allowing, promoting, ENJOYING such games, but more than half-a-century ago little boys thrived on cops and robbers and cowboys and indians.

 

My long-ago, gun-toting, three-year-old has now become a middle-aged grandfather.  To the best of my knowledge he has never shot an ear off anybody's head.