A dry, cold December 30 years ago, I went with my father to the woods. The sky was grey and pink; and all was silent. We were deer-hunting. I couldn’t possibly ever find those woods again, or our place in them. I was a child, bundled and waiting for any sight or sound. My dad also waited—for a line of sight, a clean shot, a chance.
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a nonfiction/memoir blog that tries to prove that a word paints a thousand pictures.
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