Miss Myra's Gun

Miss Myra had never been afraid of what the future held. When she was a child of eleven years, her father had handed her a revolver and instructed her to take care of her little brother and sister while he went to look for work. He never returned. For her, the future was always uncertain, but she knew it would come regardless, so she had no fear. When she reached her 89th year, she knew she could no longer live on her own, and she would have to go into a nursing home. She called me to come get the one thing she had held dear all of those years, her talisman against the dark and unknown future. Miss Myra gave me the gun her father had given his young daughter. She said she could not keep it, and she would not need it where she was going. She refused to let me pay her for it. I accepted her kind gift with reverence. I felt so undeserving, but Miss Myra told me she only wanted me to have it.

Miss Myra's gun is a Smith & Wesson M&P 4th Change in 32WCF. It still held five cartridges, which I removed that afternoon. Miss Myra had never fired the gun, but it made her feel safe all of her life. It was the one connection to the man who made her feel safe and had disappeared into the Great Depression.

Miss Myra's gun may be a rust flecked anachronism in an obsolete caliber to some, but to me it is very special. As I hold it, I am reminded of a brave little girl, who left school and got a job in the fields to support her two siblings. I am reminded of a young woman who saw her true love go to war and never return. I am reminded of a woman who went to the big city to make a life for herself from nothing, who eventually fell in love again, married, and who ran a greater distance with her life than most people can contemplate. Miss Myra never did give up. To give up was to die.

It worried me that day, when she gave me her revolver. It had meant so much to her, and to face the unknown in a nursing home without it must have been frightening. I went to see her the next day, to make sure she was OK. She was adjusting well, smiling and playing dominos. A week later, Miss Myra was gone. She was right, she did not need her Daddy's revolver where she was going. Sleep well Miss Myra, sleep well.