(Less free writing than just getting a thought down.)
For nearly twenty years the Abuelito’s pistola rested in a worn leather sheath in the Jefita’s dresser. Old fashioned wheel style weapon from his days in the hills of New Mexico and days as a charro riding his gelding and bringing home dollar boys from the state of New Mexico. The piece left to the Jefe that was so desired by the boys as they played and ran their hands through the Jeffe and Jefita’s private things. They avoided the warnings.
Stay out of my things, the Jefe would bark as he drained his nightly mix of rum chased with Coors. Who in the hell gives you the right to get into my things. I’ll eat your hands alive if you touch my things. Remember what I say.
Years later the middle boy Lolo will take a hatchet to the drawer and the lock for that pistola. He will chop at the wood and the handle with drunken cuts and slams…
