Southern Legitimacy Statement: I was born on the West Coast but when you hear the echoes of my mom’s Georgia peach accent in my voice, you can’t deny that I’ve got some claim to the land of biscuits and porch lights that shimmer like mirages at night.
On the Deer Carcass I Saw in 2015
When I was in fifth grade, my dad drove past a dead deer lying on the side of the road. We were moving slowly, caught in the lunch rush of people racing to get back to their cubicles, and I stared at her as we cruised by. Shock kept my voice quiet and eyes wide. Morbid curiosity kept my gaze on the scene, and my breath made gray fog on the window when I moved closer for a better look. She didn’t glance back, her neck bent at an awkward angle that forced her eyes to watch the gravel. The hit must’ve been recent. Her body was intact, fur only slightly dirtied. I waited for her to show some sign of life— a twitch or a blink would’ve been enough— but stiff legs pointing in different directions that only rustled when a gust of wind pushed them let me know that she was gone.
That night, after I cocooned myself in lavender blankets, I couldn’t stop picturing her under my bed. Her neck was at the perfect angle to watch my feet whenever I got up for a glass of water. Her blank black eyes were trained on the ground, her fur rustled when my AC kicked in, and her body wasn’t rotting into the carpet just yet. She was lonely on the side of the road, where cars only drove by and left her to keep watch. So, she followed me back to the house. Back to the place I’d moved into for my final months of elementary school. The place with a guest room that creeped me out at night and some perpetual dog in the distance that wouldn’t shut up. It was different from the military housings I lived in up until then, because this one was supposed to be permanent. This one was home. It was hers too, now, I guess.
Uncomfortable presence aside, she was a reliable tenant that never bothered me when the sun was out and kept silent when the moon showed up. There wasn’t one conversation she missed while I talked with friends about the woes of middle school. She listened to my playlists while I doodled in sketchbooks, and silently applauded the flashes of light she could catch from every movie I stayed up past bedtime to watch. She was starting to rot now but was polite enough to keep the smell to herself. I didn’t think about looking in on her at night anymore, because sleep was starting to come easier, and planning my outfit for the next day demanded more attention. She wouldn’t have liked the intrusion, anyway.
I found the courage to check on her a few weeks later after the neighborhood dog stopped crooning to the moon at night. She didn’t leave a note or give me any warning, but she’d somehow managed to move out. Dust bunnies replaced her broken body, and they rolled in her place when the AC turned on. I watched the shadows for the glint of her empty eyes and sniffed for some hint of the body, but I just smelled home.
The next day, I asked my dad to get a treat at Dairy Queen because the route we took would bring us by the place I first saw her. When we rolled to a stop, we were a couple feet behind where her body used to be. It must have been moved, or maybe it had completely rotted, because the only thing there was a bright patch of green grass. I tried to catch any trace of her left behind before traffic started up again and we drove past.
I didn’t look back, even though I wanted to. She kept moving forward, so I figured I should do the same.
*Val Note: I love this. It has the kind of depth that lingers long after the final sentence.
