This is the piece I read for the October Open Mic Event, which was themed, “Woodland Dreams”…
“I remember it clear as day.” his old raspy voice floated through the cab of our old beat up truck while we drove around before the sun come up. He said, “I was ten years old. It was a mornin’ like this one. The sun was miles from comin’ up, so I thought I’d get a head start on my daily huntin’ trip.”
We slowly came around the bend that if I had to guess was as tall as a house. It had rained so much the roads were like the mud had been made with baby oil instead of rain. I’d already hit my head once on the door, making me dizzy. I don’t even like hunting, but I’d been busy and wanted to spend some time with him, before it was too late.
When we got to a better part of the road, he continued his story, “Anyway, I had my rifle in my hands and my pack on my back. I’d been calling a turkey for about half an hour and he was about forty yards in front of me. About from you to that big oak tree with a twisted branch.” He pointed to a tree I must’ve seen a million times. “I was decked head to toe in camo, movin’ as quiet as I could. I almost pulled the trigger when I heard a noise I’ll never forget.
It was faint. I stayed there listenin’ for a minute.” His voice got real quiet when he said this. He doesn’t ever get this quiet unless it’s something truly heartbreaking. “Daddy, you don’t have to tell me.” He shook his head, lookin’ at the clearings around us, “No. I want to.”
We got out of the truck and started walking. He started talkin’ again, real low so he didn’t disturb the woods. “I’d walked for about a mile to the east and I came to a clearing with an old beat-up shack that was the color of grey mud. You could tell that it had been abandoned for a while. Your great-granddaddy used to tell me stories about the people who used it as a huntin’ shack.”
We’d stopped at a little house just like the one he described. I’d seen this house many times in my life. It’s not three miles from my house. It sunk in quickly, “Daddy…is this…?” He kept lookin around, as if the intensity of his stare would part the trees and present the subject of his gaze to him. I knew for certain in that moment, that I’d been correct in my assumption.
He looked as if he were swallowing a golf ball. “I heard the animal again and my heart dropped to my toes. I knew that animal. That was my horse, Betsy. She was a gift from my pawpaw, your great-granddaddy, when I was six years old. She was the last thing he gave me before he died.”
His voice started cracking, “Her appaloosa colored coat was matted with blood. She was layin’ in the rusty leaves, unable to move. She kept jerkin’ her head around. I crept slowly toward her callin’ her name as I do every mornin’. After gazing into her big doe eyes and whisperin’ to her, she calmed down a bit.”
He had sat on an old chair that had been worn from recent use. We caught our breath for a minute. “Her back was broken and she’d been attacked by somethin”. After a few moments, I said my goodbyes to her. I…picked up my rifle, aimed it between her beautiful eyes, and pulled the trigger slowly…” H
e went quiet for a while. I wrapped my arm around his torso, and we sat there. Just me comforting him like he’s done for me my entire life.
