The Shoe Box

The Shoe Box

Noel Laflin

9-21-18

I knew a woman who, once upon a time – and long ago – drove over to my house and handed me a beat up shoe box containing a loaded .22 revolver.

“That son-of-a-bitch husband of mine has waved this damn thing at me for the last time. After he passed out, I took it, and drove straight here. Do with it what you will. I’m divorcing the bastard.”

True to her word, she did.

The son-of-a-bitch husband died of cirrhosis of the liver a few short years later.

The woman is long dead too now. She simply died of old age.

The weapon was emptied, cleaned, disassembled, and hidden well away from small children – or anyone else for that matter.

The next time someone shows up unexpectedly with a beat up shoe box, I hope it just contains something nicer – like a kitten or homemade cookies perhaps.  The only thing loaded that I would want to see in that box would be brownies.

The hummingbird who claimed the balcony as his own years ago just heard me reading this aloud before posting and added his two cents worth. He is hoping the hypothetical box contains cookies - sugar cookies to be exact - and not a kitten.

He's ambivalent about the brownies. 

Regardless, he's got a point.