PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

More than 50 years ago, my grandmother received her pistol from her father. Out of 14 sons, she was the one that mattered, for she was the best with a gun. Her father called her “mi pistolera”, her gun-lady, helping him carrying the rifles to the journeys they made to the field. She could shot a deer between the eyes 33 feet away with might, and carry it back home so that could be the supper of the night. Even my grandfather knew about her skill with that pistol, but since he was a man of words few she never get any recognition. One day, out in the road they saw a rabbit hopping with speed. My grandpa stopped the truck and tried to kill it so they could feed, but he failed leaving only several holes. In that moment my grandma took out her gun and with a single shot, the rabbit stayed down. But not only had she known how to shoot, she also had skill in the art of cook. Deer and lamb, chicken and all kind of meat. She used her knife and knowledge, and for what I heard she made the most delicious plate. My mother always told me stories of how great and hardworking she was, always having things ready for when the family was gathered together. Christmas at her house were the best, the smell coming out of the kitchen and the table shining with the silverware. And one time I remember entering in her room, seeing an object and thinking, “how before I wasn’t aware?” It was her old pistol, unused, in a corner. I asked about it to her and she said: “that’s very old, don’t pay attention to it. Now come and join us, dinner is getting cold.” For the years to come, when she went to visit us, I remember her in the window saying goodbye. When we arrived at home the food was ready, and all I had to do was eat until I was more than full. When my grandma passed away, we stayed a week at her house, deciding which things were staying and which were going. I walked into her room and saw the old dusty pistol, I took it with my hands and decided to take here it truly belong. I left in the tomb of the family, covered with a sheet. A safeguard for my “Abue” so that I can hear knew stories, when again we meet.