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LEONA SEVICK GONE In they came, one at a time and almost imperceptibly, is how I like to remember it. I rarely saw them, even as they made their hooded way out the door to a range or woods I'd never been. We owned many kinds: first the 12-gauge, then the Glocks, a Remington, two .38 Specials and a little Ruger that would fit a child's hand. Over time I'd closed my eyes to what it cost me to house them among the rare, breathing souls I'm meant to love and care for. At six I begged my mother to buy me a fat copy of Gone with the Wind. When he got home my father took it from my hands and put it in his dresser until I was old enough to read it. That dresser, unlocked, also held the handgun in case we needed it. If my father sensed the irony, he didn't say. When I came to my senses, out they went—a single trip to the gun dealer who, I'm told, admired their condition, their value. Afterward, I took the receipt from my adult son's hand, drew him to me. |