A babe.
Perhaps just old enough to toddle resting on a showcase counter within his mother’s arms.
Within his tiny little hands, he grasps the barrel of a gun. His mother guiding minute little fingers into position. It’s all still pretend as he small arms are not yet long enough to grasp both the body and the trigger of the shiny black weapon.
But one day.
Perhaps that is what she whispers as she bends down to it’s little ear. All coos and kindness and soothing.
First memories of a machine gun made sweet in mother’s arms.
Perhaps that is why it is so jarring. When liberals from all the fringes of this nation demand the end, the regulation, the castration of this great piece of machinery.
For it was the guns, the diseases, the steel that made us great.
It is through these artifacts that we bond as a brotherhood. Boys and girls praised, maybe for the first, the only, time by proud parents for their remarkable aim.
Holding onto comfort, to culture, to pieces of the past handed down through history; through metal, through books and bullets, through pow[d]er.
Caia Rose 