WONDER 06.29.13

"Have you ever shot a gun?" he asked, his own pistol pressed to his palm with a casual grip, his thumb toying the trigger. His belt hung low like a real cowboy. His hat pitched forward over the forehead, washing gentle shadows across his smooth face, but at least one eye was in full sun and cast in wonder.

"No," I said, "I haven't.

"Do you want to?" He sought only one answer; it happened to be the truthful one.

"I do. I want to learn to hunt animals." The eyes widened to encompass his entire being. They were as alive as fully-cured compost, and the color of chicory wilting in the rain. His hair shone like a field of California-poppies, and curled out from under the braided straw. Releasing the tension of sheer awe, he shot a couple of rounds out the open window.

"What kind of gun would you get?!" He asked, pulling the trigger again.

I thought for a moment. "Well, a rifle, I suppose." I crossed tiny sleeve over tiny sleeve, straightened collars and smoothed towels into even piles. Laundry is my favorite: freshening the soiled, making neat out of a pile of wrinkles, and placing finished stacks in drawers of perfect dimensions; my blood is light by the end of the clear and finite chore.

He stood up straight, forming the question in his posture. "Why wouldn't you want a pistol?"

Indignant hands on narrow child hips. The gun in his hand went slightly limp, but he shot a few more times, this time at his little brother.

"Because those guns are used to hurt people," I said. "I don't want to hurt people, I want to hunt animals, hunt them to eat them. I want to learn how to shoot them quick, and how to butcher and cure them."

"When do you think you'll get it?" He asks. Indignation turns again to wonder, and his eight years suddenly seem like a vast opportunity.

"I don't know," I reply, sliding a sheet of paper under the crayon trapped between a two-year-old palm and the table. "I'm not ready to own a gun. It's a big responsibility. It can be a dangerous thing if not used in a very safe way."

As I load finished piles into the laundry basket, I tell him that he is not allowed to aim at me or his brother while I'm around. The 'you're not the boss in this house' is easily tamed with a mischievous evil eye and a firm, closing statement. When I leave for the day, I realize that I am proud of this conversation. Proud of knowing where I stand with guns and food and children's play, and proud that I can tuck little nuggets of perspective into these tiny brains, just by telling my truth.

And to an eight-year-old, the truth is wondrous. To know his nanny's real feelings and opinions is all he wants. The questions never begin and never stop, and I am grateful.