9-7

My grandma used to tell me I'd scare the men. Intimidate them.

Annie Oakley, she said.

It seemed ludicrous. I was no gun-wielding hooting wild woman; I was uncomfortable in my skin and tried to hide that I sweat too much and wore glasses with silver rims long past when silver rims should have been worn.

Missing her is constant. She knew me before I became me. I don't know how she saw so much.

Annie Oakley, most days.

Her last words to me were, "I love you."

She was cranky, eyes closed, trying to die while all around us we clung at her, wordlessly enticing her in our confusion and fear that she stay. We blotted her head with damp towels and on the television, in sepia tones, an old-fashioned duo sang Red River Valley as she waved our nervous hands away and wanted to be left alone to die.

She rallied, though, to tell me she loved me. I don't think I knew death then. It didn't seem totally final, saying goodbye to her. I wanted to feel something when I left, but there was nothing in me. I was new to farewell, though I've become accustomed.

I wonder what she would think of me these days. I have stumbled and fallen, but I am Annie Oakley after all. I grew into a wild woman with a wild heart and a fast trigger finger. How did she know? I love the things she loved - rich foods and making things with my hands and trips to the grocery store. The books I made her by hand have become reality, no longer childish pages stapled together, but agonized over, hidden away and protected.

I think of her now and I can imagine her shaking with anger and rage, hugging me, scratching my back with her hooked arthritic hands and insulting the man who hurt me with violent surprising words. Susie Q. Little Missy. Annie Oakley.

I brace my knees in the dust and I rise slowly with my gun in hand. My body aches and is colored with bruises, but I rise.

I am not a woman to be broken.