The Following Morning

My son named her Kit. It was the only name that came to mind when he found her. She was lying on her side, her eyes were closed, her breathing was slow, and she curled her front paws; not in defense but in some response to a dream or a memory. I saw blood coming from her neck. I knew how she got there but I didn’t know how she was still alive. I ran the back of my hand slowly along her fur. It was soft. From afar she was ordinary, but close up, her fur was an undisciplined field of browns, reds, blacks and whites bearing their beauty as one. She opened her eye. She saw my eyes. I felt a calm settle. A gentle pink sprawled itself out across the evening sky and guided the remaining clouds to follow the sun, asking them to return tomorrow. The trees around stood witness and played with the soft hint of a warm breeze before the stars took their places.

The following morning, in the make shift cradle my son made for her, I watched with attention the impending birth. I lied the box just under a windowsill. I wanted the sun to be present but not overbearing. And as I adjusted the curtains, I saw that from which she had mordaciously escaped. Coyotes are a rare sighting in the northeast. Not uncommon, but they elude the unfamiliar proximity of our threats. It sniffed the ground where she lied, calmly covering the ground, looking up at me, asking me not to interfere with her care for her babies, who followed a short distance behind her. All three were small with their own beautiful fur to call their own. I can see their ribs, pulsating slowly as their young tongues lied out just beyond their snout. They rubbed up against their mother and gnawed on her stomach in a playful yet concerning manner. I wondered where the father was.

My son stood over me as I lifted her. “where are you putting her?” “back outside” “you can’t, she’s hurt. And she needs a place to get better. And the coyote will get her.” “we can’t interfere, son. That’s not how mother nature works.” “dad please” I stopped before I opened the door. I tucked her next to my chest and felt her lungs in tandem with mine as we both breathed. The stiff of her stomach protested my fingers, as gentle as they were. I looked for a sign. I always look for a sign when a decision needs to be made. There was none.

When I was a boy, my father and I, hikers we were as a pastime, came upon a fawn, alone. It sat near a split tree, attentive to everything and nothing all at once. I looked up at my father who I saw noticing but continued walking. “dad, where is the mom?” “don’t know” “we can help it.” “no, we can’t” “why not? It’s scared and alone. we can take care of it.” My father stopped walking and slowly turning to me and crouching down to eye level said, “son, that baby could feed a family. I don’t know why its mother left it, but that’s not up to us to decide. Best to let mother nature work itself out.” He walked on not once turning back. He walked on until he was out of sight. I stared at the fawn for what felt like my entire 10th year on earth. She adjusted her legs. Twitched her nose and moved it about, as if the breeze had total control of her motions. I wanted to hug it. I wanted my father to see how strong I was. I turned and walked on and fought my want to turn back and at least say goodbye. The fawn was gone when I returned the following morning.

Against the cries of my son, whose voice tenderly echoed mine some thirty years before, I carried her out to the trees. They were tall, strong, indifferent to my intentions. I could not find the right tree; the best tree to help my endeavor to secure a rightful place. When a tree splits, and two trunks emerge for supremacy, they battle for dominance. I was searching for that. I wanted to rest her under a prevailing phenomenon of competing lives. And there it was. Standing. Silent. The sun’s chosen one. I had walked on out of sight. I pushed some dirt with my heel and formed a small burrow and gently lied her down, careful not to disturb her. I felt a sense of want to make sure she would be safe. I felt my inner-child banging my chest with his fists. I knew my boy was looking at me. Yet, I struggled to control myself. “father, always you battle me” I was just a child. I turned back towards home and hugged my tearful son.

The following morning, with a hope she was there, as if my decision to leave her would be overruled by fate or luck, I awoke to a headache. In its most disagreeable manner, the sun shone itself through a crack in the curtains I had failed to seal, and punished me for not heeding my own inner battle. Throughout the restless night, I bothered myself with memories of what if’s, could haves, my father’s words, my inability to see myself, and see myself in him, through him. All was quiet. Still. Calm. I walked with a swiftness. Not to waken my son, I slowly opened the door and made my way for the trees. My feet hopped in a manner unnatural, almost animal like. Why had I walked her out so far? The sun bared itself through the canopy, obstructing my sight, playing ruler of who gets their time to shine and who is confined to shadows. I saw the tree where I left her. In the shadow of her resting place, she was gone, but in her stay, lie three babies.