Sometimes you have to write about something in order to be able to let it go. DEATH DANCE Because of the pain she’s been having in her shoulder lately, I am driving Letha home from her job teaching at the new charter school. We are about halfway down the main road before you have to turn when we see that traffic is stopped at the incoming lane, and something has happened. “Somebody’s hit a deer,” Letha says. As I slow to a stop, I see it. A small deer standing in the middle of the road, blood coming from its mouth, its head down and its legs curved in an unnatural way. It is trying to stay standing, but it is confused. The car that has hit it is a large white SUV that has pulled to the side of the road. I can’t see inside the car or in any of the other cars in the line. Sky reflects off all the windows. I begin to cry out and sob, “Oh, no, I don’t want to see this! No! No!” as I began dialing 9-1-1 on my cell phone. The woman answers, “9-1-1, What’s your emergency?” “We are on the road coming from Macon, coming from that new school headed toward Juliette, and somebody’s hit a deer. Oh no! Please! Blood’s coming from its mouth! It’s trying to stand!” As I talk, the deer continues to sway from side to side, a step back, a step sideways, its head hanging down, its mouth bright red. With each of the deer’s movements, I cry out, “No! Please! Can you send someone to help this deer out of its misery? Please call the police or natural resources!” “Calm down, Ma’am,” the woman says. “Are you in Monroe County? Is anyone hurt?” “I don’t know where Monroe County is,” I say. “We’re beside a black mailbox. The numbers say 5-2-3-6. We’re leaving Macon on the road to Juliette. Please send someone!” The deer goes down on its two front legs as if kneeling in a church or bowing to royalty. “Oh, my God!” I cry. Suddenly the deer seems to perk up, stands, and takes a few frisky steps toward the white SUV that has hit it. Cars begin to pull out from the line to go around. In the line I see a sheriff’s car. “The deer has moved,” I tell 9-1-1. “I see a sheriff’s car.” “Are you hurt?” the woman asks. “Yes, my heart is breaking!” I yell into the phone. The woman hangs up. We drive slowly past the scene. “I’m sorry you got so upset,” Letha says, rubbing my back around and around in big circles. “What is the meaning in this?” I say. “There has to be meaning here.” But all I can think of is the deer, its head bowed, its mouth red, its legs moving gracefully, its body curved in private pain, and all the people watching.
Posted on: Thu, 06 Nov 2014 19:06:49 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015