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Deep in the Forest
The buck is missing. I say ‘missing,’ though I might as well imagine the worst because that’s how things always turn out anyway, like when Anthony never recovered despite our vow to be together forever.
Even with an apple or carrot in my hand, the doe won’t approach me so I can stroke her tan fur, soothe that nervous twitch of her ears, tell her I’m sorry about the buck, or say, ‘I’ll take care of you’ even if that’s not actually true because there are hunters in the forest who've probably already hung and gutted the buck, not to mention that a doe is easy prey for those blood-thirsty, wily coyotes.
I follow a family on Instagram that allows their pony inside with the kids. I’ve no kids myself though we tried for years until suddenly one day, Anthony was gone, not missing, just gone, leaving only me, elbows on the kitchen table, hands propping up my head, staring out the window, always watching for the doe, eager to say, 'Come in, come in.'
Tonight, while the clock’s tick tock marks the lonely distance between seconds, I hear her bleat, immediately recognize the distressed tone, then head to the garden, my bare feet cushioned by damp spring grass, my eyes adjusting to the darkness. I hop over the brook she drinks from, swollen from the afternoon downpour, duck under the drooping branches of evergreens on the narrow path that will lead me to her, deep in the forest, farther and farther away from the house, its rooms so terribly cold and empty.