As I walked, one day, down a forsaken
and forlorn footpath, I stopped, stopped and sat, sat to rest, rest from my
walk, the walk in the woods, the walk to get away, away from the tension,
tension caused by life. As I sat and caught my breath, I found a gap, a gap in
the grass, the tall grass, the concealing grass. In that gap there lay a
spiritual relic, a broken relic of some wood I could not name. It lay upon the
dirt, the bare dirt with the base, the unattached base still in the cold, stoic
ground at the edge of the spot where I sat.
Years ago I had a friend, a true friend.
He watched over me while I slept. He welcomed me home from my hunts. We would
share my catches. His favorite was venison, as was mine. We would run under the
full moons in the woods, the very same woods where I set years later. We would
sit and stare and howl under the stars and at those moons and in those woods.
One morning, one cold and sad morning, he failed to wake. His chest did not
move; his heart did not beat; his paws lay still. His eyes forever shut. I miss
him.
When I caught my breath and dried my
tears, I said my good-byes to whoever lay there in the cold, stoic ground, then
continued down the path. Someday I will rejoin my old friend, but not that day,
that lonesome day. Someday I will have my own piece of ground, forsaken and
bare, and some spiritual device, a broken and wooden relic for myself, but not
that day. The deer awaited me, awaited my bow and quiver, and awaited my game
of old, the hunt. The game was on again.