Leaves had yet to turn when the deer blind went up long before rifle season. Preparing kept him from dwelling on grief.
Mother’s passing months prior stayed his mind only on loss. “Concentrate on good times,” people advised. They said, “She’s in a better place.” All that tripe made not a damn bit of difference.
Hunting provided the only mental respite. Readying his stand, cleaning his rifle, and sighting in the scope all saved him from himself. Redirected with thought of the kill.
Looking skyward, he mumbled, “Figure it’s one fer one, Lord. You take one, and I take one, too.”
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Photo: US Fish & Wildlife Service via Flickr