Deer Season
The sun rose and began its languid trip around the sky. Its light stretched among the woods, finding hidden spaces, covering others in new shadows. Dawn’s warm yellow light didn’t capture the way the frigid air stopped your breath, or how on really early mornings if you didn’t keep the air in your mouth for a little while it would sting your lungs. On November mornings, the world was still quiet.
Their footsteps crunched in the old snow. He stepped on one large fragment of ice, hidden under the snow, and one sharp crack emanated from under his small boot. This brief interruption of the unearthly silence made them stop for a full minute. His grandfather turned, keeping the rifle slung over his shoulder, and brought one finger to his lips. He mouthed sorry.
The shadows shrank as the sun rose higher in the sky. Unable to keep silent, the boy rode on the older man’s back while he carried the rifle. He surveyed the forest and tugged on the strings connected to the old man’s hunting cap. The woolen ties bounced with each of the man’s steps.
The boy smiled a secret smile. This is what he wanted to do. He remembered his grandfather touching him gently on the shoulder last night after grandma had put him to sleep. Grandpa asked if he wanted to go. He nodded. He never wanted anything so bad.
