She was irresistible. Sometimes she’d catch me watching her at family reunions—the green eyed monster looming over my shoulder—and the smile would lose its luster. It’d morph into something foreign—even hollow—and the she’d wink at me. Filled with resignation and understanding. I wish I’d told her I love her more. She knew I hated guns. They scared me—still do—but she made a point of taking me to the shooting range whenever the opportunity arose. My dad and grandpa would come with too. She was great with a handgun. Lisa could unload a clip with precision and accuracy in under seven seconds. I never thought to ask why she could. She always made a point of including me. She made sure I fired a clip out of every gun. I wasn’t good at it, but I wasn’t bad either. I burned with shame—if I can’t do something well, I don’t do it at all. When my dad and grandpa were packing up the firearms after a couple hours at the range, I told Lisa I didn’t want to go shooting anymore. She turned those knowing hazel eyes on my and pulled me into a hug. “I know sweetie,” she murmured. “You don’t like to hurt people—Lord knows I can’t bear the thought of it myself—but as your auntie and godmother you are one of the most special people in the world to me, and I would do absolutely anything to keep you safe.” My eyes welled with tears as she continued. “But I won’t always be there to protect you.” Her voice breaks, “And when someday—Heaven forbid—a man lays his hands on you, I need to know that you can defend yourself.” I nod—eyeliner streaking. 38
WALDORF LITERARY REVIEW
