I’ve never seen my father look so small before. My feet, in the velcro shoes, dangle from the ledge of the almost-treehouse. But this is for killing. Beyond the acre of browning grass the bay is still as a made bed. Behind me, more trees. More crisping leaves, more whistling from the barn swallow. The sun is rising in front of us, the field barely shadowed by the low-sitting house that my grandparents built. And my father, below me, stands with his arms apart. In his green shirt, his gun in one hand and his other palm open to the cold air, he appears as if he’s on the cross but prepared to defend himself. I am so young here. My jacket swishes when I move and my father spins and puts a finger to his lips. Quiet, he says, they can hear everything. Can I tell you a secret? We sat in the quiet for hours imagining footsteps. My father never killed anything, but forgive him if he says he has.
To the Backcountry
God bless our cars for carrying all this death. How many times have I helped my father hoist the bodies of dead deer into the cab of his truck? Nothing is as chilling as the sound of a carcass rolling in the bed like a collection of loose bottles. Highbeams penetrate the dark every mile or so, recurring as a dream. There are moths scattered on every windshield in the county. God bless the backcountry. There is no one in the passenger seat but our former selves, lively and harmless as violins. The grass beside us nothing but a suggestion of green. God bless the lowland and its thick air. We travel through the night looking for things to set fire to. God bless us we are alive and possibly dangerous.
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