Briefly Speaking

The Trillium

Trillium. Photo: Me.

Three leaves darker than blood. Holy Scarlet Trinity rising from a wounded earth. I stop, admire, take a picture — the triad of gestures like my very own sign of the cross. I’ve made these motions nearly a dozen times on this trip up the mountain. I am drawn to this location. Privy to its secrets. Here, by this oak, where this three-leaf trillium now grows, I once shot a deer. She was big. Agile. Graceful. I spotted the doe in my scope. Her head was bent, snout to the ground. Eating, perhaps. Or trailing the scent of her children, maybe. I bent my finger around the trigger that day. I watched her carefully, made sure she was standing still. I steadied myself. Scrutinized her. When I was certain she was mine, I held tight to the rifle’s forend. Gently pulled the trigger. Listened to the angry shot fly forth. She went down. I watched her fall. Watched her jerk about. I ran over to her flinching body, stood by her as she died. I’ll never forget — the memory is fresh. Her scared eyes were ajar. Her bulging brown tapetum were like angry oceans, ready to swallow pupils that had observed too much. She looked at me. I watched as she breathed one last breath, the air from her snout moving the tiny green blades of trampled grass near her face ever-so-slightly as she exhaled. One last breath — then nothing. I rested my hand on her chest. Checked for a flattened pulse. Made sure she was gone. Drug her down the mountain. Listened as her human-sized corpse smacked against the truck bed. Studied the way the sharp metal knife blade carved thin lines into her body. Felt her thin, opaque skin pull free from thick muscle. Watched my caramel flesh turn crimson as her blood smeared on my hands. I’d bury her bones, her once life-filled organs, in a shallow grave behind my house. It was a last-ditch effort at showing dignity. An attempt at keeping the bobcats and loose hounds away.

“Ain’t she a’beauty.” Dad’s voice snaps me back to what’s before me. I look down at the flower, nod my head in agreement. For a moment, I just stand there. I admire the trillium’s deep red leaves. Here this crimson flora will burgeon, feast on morning sunshine, sip evening rain. Here, where a graceful doe once stood, snout-to-ground, living her last day.