“I saw a deer up in the woods.
Some one shot it.
They must have lost it.”
“Yeah?” I said,
not sure if I should believe it.
In the afternoon, he said,
“I saw a deer up in the woods.Someone shot it, must have lost it.”
“Yeah,” I said,
not sure what to do about it,
even if it was true.
In the evening Dad said it again.
For him to remember something
three times in the row,
there must be something to it.
So for the first time in my life
I donned a bright orange vestand walked up in the woods
with him to see about this deersomeone lost track of.
Half the time he couldn’t
remember what season
it was, and he’d often ask
what was legal to shoot.
Surprisingly he walked right to it.
This was a man that carried a rifle
from the time he was nine years old,
had gotten over fifty deer
and couldn’t remember
the names of his five daughters.
He still knew the woods.He tagged the deer,
pleased he’d gotten one for the season,
his wife and daughters relieved
he’d stay out of the woods.
The meat was bad.
We never told him.
It was his last hunting season.