My father will eat dinner with his gun, or breakfast, when he eats
breakfast. As if a utensil, he places it beside his fork, on the
a corner of his napkin, after work, and he then does not notice it
My father does not go to work now.
He comes home the same times, but he does not go anywhere, I think.
Pass this or that, hell say.
He tries to encourage dinner conversation, Tell me about your days, but
he will never describe his own, or admit to having one.
My mother is not agitated. I think, maybe, she suggested that he
come with the gun, for protection, or she strongly does not mind.
The time he fired that gun it was not a disaster. My mother held
his head then, in front of us all, and then, later, he took a shower
better, I believe.
He will sit on the deck, crossing his legs, and have his gun, and
speak to my mother. I believe that is when he tells his day to others,
her. At those times I am probably working. I think I will soon be
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