Love, Laughter, and a Missing Sidearm

I married my best friend. That’s not just a poetic turn of phrase or something I’d slap on a wooden sign in the living room next to a candle that smells like “Farmhouse Memories.” It’s the plain truth.

She’s the calm when the world’s storming outside. The safe place I run to when the day’s gone sideways. The one who knows how I take my coffee and what my silences mean. She’s not just my wife; she’s my compass, my anchor, and the only person alive who can make me feel like a twelve-year-old boy and an old fart at the same time.

Now, that said, I can’t find my handgun.

You’d think that would cause a man a fair amount of distress—and it does—but not for the usual reasons. It’s not like I’m worried it’s fallen into enemy hands or anything. It’s our house, not an action movie set. No, the problem is, I know I put it somewhere safe. That’s what I told myself. I distinctly remember thinking, “This is a smart place to put this.” Which is a phrase that should always set off alarm bells, because it usually means I’ll never see that object again unless I stumble upon it during spring cleaning five years from now.

Now I’m pacing the house like a dog who buried a bone and forgot which tree he picked.

Drawers. Closet shelves. That weird little nook behind the laundry soap.

The bottom of the sock drawer, where old Christmas cards and mystery keys live. I’ve even looked inside the pressure cooker for reasons I can’t fully explain.

Meanwhile, my wife’s sitting at the kitchen table, sipping her soda like a serene Buddha with good hair. She watches me without saying a word at first, letting me conduct my search with all the grace of a raccoon in a garage.

“You lose something?” she asks, finally.

“I’m just looking for…” I trail off. I can’t admit it. Not yet. “A thing.”

She raises an eyebrow. That’s all it takes. One perfectly arched eyebrow and I confess everything.

“My handgun,” I mumble.

Her eyes go wide for a second, and then the corners of her mouth do that dangerous little twitch. I know that one. That’s the beginning of the end.

She bites her lip, but it’s no use. She starts to laugh. The kind of laugh that starts small and then shakes her whole frame like a summer wind through the cottonwoods.

“In your ‘smart place,’ was it next to the peanut butter again?” she asks between giggles.

That’s not fair. That was one time.

Ten minutes later, she finds it. In the gun safe. Right where it should be.

“You locked it up, genius,” she says with a kiss on my cheek.

And just like that, I’m reminded of all the reasons I love her. She’s not just my heart—she’s my memory, my logic, and the person who knows me better than I know myself.

So yeah—happiness is being married to someone who is your best friend, your peace, your person, even if she does laugh at you when you can’t find your gun.