A certain beauty in letting go

          Every inch of my skin itches. I don’t know how much time has passed, but my soaking socks and the high-crawling termites indicate we haven’t moved for quite some time. My eight-year-old body trembles in the wind. The morning snow just settled, quiet and fresh, blanketing everything in white.

          Underneath a grass cave, a creature eats freely, unaware of us. Its grey eyes shimmer, sensitively enlightened in the sunlight. It steps out into the cold, sniffs the air, and becomes clear in our sight. As if it hears something, the creature tilts its snout away from us. Our eyes meet.

          “Is it looking at us?” I whisper.

          “No,” Dad murmurs, “They can’t see really well in the rain.”

He taps around his feet to find his gun.

          “Let's move closer,” Dad says, standing halfway. Pointing at a bush a few steps toward the creature.

Our boots crunch against the fallen snow, harder than I imagined, closer to ice. I tread carefully in every hole Dad leaves behind, barely filling half the impressions. Squeak, squeak, squeak. With each step, the creature’s figure sharpens. We crouch.

          “Look,” Dad talks with his hand; two fingers stretch out.

          “It’s a little Formosan sika deer. Beautiful, isn’t she?” he whispers, filled with quiet awe. He puts his face to the snow, almost touching it. I remain quiet as he taught me. The rain rages on, leaving holes in the whitened ground.

          “Stay here.” Dad tucks me under a stack of fallen branches and crawls out of our hiding place.

          The fawn breathes puffs of white mist, her ears flick as it listens in every direction. The white spots she carries on her back look like mochi stuck on a sheet of soybean powder. She still stares.

          The rain stops, the woods die down quickly, and the wind blows without sound. As my ears grow used to the silence, I can hear every pulse of my heartbeat. I imagine this is how a hibernating bear feels—quiet.

          I take a handful of snow and bite it between my teeth, just like Dad taught me. Good hunters keep their breath hidden. I close my eyes and focus on every inhale and exhale. Snow melts. Sharpened rocks press against my chest while the branches scratch rashes on the back of my neck.

          BANG!

          I am frozen by the echoing sound. The deer’s feet fail, knocking her on her side. The woods return to silence. I crawl out from hiding. Dad stands next to his prey. A red dart sticks out of her butt.

          “Does it hurt?” I ask, frowning.

          “The sleeping bullets don’t hit hard, but I can’t imagine it feels great,” Dad crouches down and puts his hand on her belly, up and down.

          “I hate to put her down this way, but animals don’t know the mountain is poisoned,” he sighs. “They bury waste here, and if we didn’t stop her from eating here, she might not wake up.”

          I lose focus while playing with the animal’s fur.

          “Can I touch her face?” I laugh and look at my father.

          “Sure, be gentle,”

          I study her closely, moving my hand from her ears down to her snout.

          “Her nose is wet.” I wipe my hand against my sweater.

          “That’s how you can tell they are healthy. Look,” He points to the fawn, her eyes open halfway.

          “Shhhhhhh… everything will be alright.” Dad puts his hand on her snout, comforting her, “The sleeping bullet’s job is to help her go to bed, and our job is to keep away bad dreams.”

          I nod and kneel, putting her head on my lap, lowering my torso to give her a hug. She fills my arms. Mom always tells me to hug my little sister like this after we fight. The closer y’all hearts meet, she says, The faster y’all calm each other down.

          I look into the fawn’s eyes and run my hand over her neck and shoulder, tracing the curves of her muscles, feeling how delicate and strong she is all at once. Her heart is beating, slower than mine.

          My hands border her ribs awkwardly, as my first attempt to hold another life closer. Her breath dampens my sweater, and the warmth of her body seeps through the fabric, claiming parts of my skin. There’s a wildness to her, not quite understood, but it feels like she belongs to a different world.

          “You're doing great,” Dad says softly as he gathers sticks and branches for tonight’s campfire. “Just keep her calm.”

          I lean down, resting my forehead lightly against the crown of her head. She smells like pine needles and earth, like the forest itself.

          Water falls from the trees, gathering in the folds of her fur. I wipe them dry with my sleeves, hovering over her with my coat so the cold can’t reach her. I gaze at the peace on her face, an expression so calm I can feel her peace settle into me.

          Dad watches quietly. I sense his approval; a silent pride as I take up the role of nursing in my little way.

          “The weather is really nice now. The sun is out.” Dad inhales so hard I can hear the air rush through his nostrils. The clouds above us shift, parting just enough for a slice of sunlight to slip through, shining directly on the fawn and warming my fingers.

          “It’s okay,” I whisper, “you’re safe now.” Her ear twitches against my hand, and her eyes catch the light.

          “Let’s go. The effect will wear off soon.” Dad lugs the toolbag back on his shoulders. Gently, I ease the fawn’s head back onto the ground.

          “My feet hurt,” I mutter, shaking the numbness away. Dad chuckles and pulls me to my feet with one hand.

          “Come on. We’ll release her near our garden. The grass is better there, and fewer hunters roam that way.”

          “I’m ready,” I grin, shaking the snow off my sleeves. Dad hoists the deer onto his shoulders with a grunt.

 

—

 

          The way back feels different, quieter, lighter. I focus on the soft sound of wind brushing past my face and the occasional chirp of a bird hidden in the trees.

          Dad’s boots crunch rhythmically through the snow, and I follow half a step behind. My legs burn with soreness at every step. My feet feel heavy, soaked, and numb, but I don’t complain.

          I steal glances at Dad. His breath comes out in steady clouds, his face calm beneath his wool hat. I think about the fawn resting on his shoulder, her heartbeat still so clear in my memory. I wonder if she’ll remember us when she wakes up, or if the moment would be cleared, like a dream slipping away with the morning light.

          “Can we keep her?” I ask, “I can take good care of her.”

          “She’s not a pet, kiddo,” he says firmly, but kindly. “She belongs out here.”

          “But what if she gets shot again, or gets sick?” I argue, hurrying my steps to catch up. “What if she eats the wrong plants? We could keep her safe. We have a garden and a shack!”

          Dad grins, slowing his steps. “It’s nice of you to care so much about her, but she’s a wild animal. It’d be wrong to keep her.”

          “But what if she needs us?” My voice shivers. “We could take care of her. She could live with us, like Huchi.” I kick a clump of snow off the tail.

          Dad shakes his head. “It’s not the same. Huchi is a dog. He is used to people, but not her. She wouldn’t be happy if we kept her.”

          I frown, frustration bubbling up inside me.

          “Look, kid. There is a certain beauty in letting go, in knowing the memory is what’s important,”

Dad talks in riddles sometimes, “And you learned how to nurse life. That stays with you.” He drops his shoulder and takes a peep at me.

          I stay quiet for a moment, chewing on his words. “Will she remember us?” I ask quietly, more to myself.

          “I don’t know, but we will remember her.” Dad focuses back on the trail.

 

—

 

          The wind brushes through the trees, whispering through the empty branches. The forest makes its presence known, but not with sound—just movement. Subtle and slow, ebb and flow, like the Earth breathing beneath the snow.

          Up ahead is Dad’s old shack.

          Dad built a shack deep in the mountains, away from any road and smoke. The shack leans awkwardly, lit with bare lightbolts, and smells like rust. The door is just a bunch of sticks nailed together, held in place by a rod Dad took from Huchi’s old cage. Mom always tells Dad to repair it with new parts, but what works, works, seems to be his only answer. Everything seems vulnerable to the touch, yet the shack stands older than me.

          “Wait here,” Dad says, grabbing a used towel from the shelf, “Can you help pick some wildflowers from the garden?”

          I nod and watch as Dad steps outside, carrying the fawn. From the backdoor, I see him lay the towel on the dry patch of snow. He places her on it, arranging the wildflowers and berries I gathered near her mouth, so she can reach them. He crouches down and waves, signalling me to approach.

          “Want to say goodbye?” Dad glances at me under his eyebrows.

          I place my hand on the fawn’s stomach, feeling the pulse of life that hums quietly inside her. Dad does the same, covering my hand with his palm.

          “Goodbye, hope to see you again,” Dad says in a way of comfort, in the softest way he knows how.

          “Goodbye,” I repeat.

          The rain starts again not too long after. From the comfort of the shack, we wave as the fawn disappears into the wild.