On Family and Firearms - Part 1.

So my youngest brother brings a ham and a handgun to Christmas dinner at our mother’s.  What kind of trouble could he be expecting—maybe a fight for second helpings? 

Seeing red, I focus on my breathing to calm down.  I’m hearing every fourth or fifth word, semi-playful jibes coming at me-- patriotic ... 2nd amendment ... liberty.   Exhale now, one, two, three. 

When I ask why he feels the need to have a gun, he laughs.  When I ask him to take it out to the car, please, and lock it up, he’s like a scolded puppy.  Being the oldest “child” I’m accustomed to sibling resentment.  I’m fond of control.  I’m also fond of harmony and weapons-free gatherings,

After Mama seconds my request that he lock the gun in his car, he agrees.  But he’s not happy about it.  First, in a tough-guy tone, he says:  Ask me what I’m afraid of.  I oblige: What are you afraid of, Bro?   He answers with a swagger: Nothing!  as his hand reaches toward the bulge under his shirt. 

I wonder what he’s really afraid of.  But I don’t ask.