Ceasefire.
 

I know there was a ceasefire because I saw it; I was there. The weather was cold and I didn’t have any mittens, but I was there. People were everywhere, but it didn’t matter at that point. No one is concerned with dignity or pride these days, so they took out their guns in front of all those people, and I had to watch. An aside—I resolved then and there to always leave my gun at home. I don’t think I could handle shooting someone by mistake.

My jacket was a little bit small, as I had had it the December before. It wouldn’t really have been a big deal, except that like I said, I didn’t have any mittens, and the length of the sleeves only left more flesh exposed to a drying cold that left little cranberry tributaries over the surface of my hands and wrists. My mother didn’t carry lotion in her purse like I would learn to later on, so there was no relief.

People always say I look like my mother, but I think that’s a bit strange. My face is only like hers slightly superficially. Her face is more angular, because she’s less removed from our Native American ancestors. My eyes are harder, though. At least I think so. My mother always looks like she’s about to cry, whereas I always look more like I’m just about to leave. People only say I look like her because it’s a nice thing to say.

The one I look more like is my father. My mother reminds me of this often. As the divorce progressed, the frequency of these remindings increased. I know someone who could probably chart this increase clearly, but it seems silly to ask. Like my father, I have a round face and a soft nose. Brown eyes, too. My mother’s are a gray-blue, and she was counting on my inheriting them, I guess. I remember once she told me I had my father’s eyes, and turned her face to the floor to mutter the phrase “shit-filled eyes.” I turned my face to the floor, too.

On the day they took out the guns there wasn’t a floor, but there was asphalt and broken glass. My memory has holes born from the years that have passed since, but there were most likely a few bottle caps from beer bottles. Now that I think of it, that would explain the glass, too.

Though there were gunshots fired, I wasn’t shot—not even by accident, which surprises me. My foot is scarred along the arch from stepping on a piece of glass that kept its curve enough to curl into a small foot in just the right way, but I was never shot. Along with my surprise, I’ve always been grateful for that. I remember my shoe filling with blood. My mother was occupied with her own gun, trying not to get shot herself, so I just didn’t ask for help. I wasn’t really old enough to have a gun at the time, so I just sat on the ground to watch.

While sitting, I took an oversized plastic cheerio out of a pocket in my jacket. My mother had put some Kix cereal inside for me, so at least I wasn’t hungry while all of this was going on.

They had the guns out and blood got everywhere, but no one fell to the ground and gasped at me. No one gurgled any last words. So long as they were still shooting at each other, it was dramatic, but it wasn’t dangerous. Sitting on the concrete, I noticed that you only really get shot when there’s a ceasefire.