It was her father who had taken her to see the bear, a year after her mother had disappeared, leaving only a sliver of packing paper that read, “Gone back.” It was a stone-white morning, before the birds began to stir, when she woke and saw her father sitting in the corner, watching her with his red rimmed eyes. “You look like your mother,” was the first words he spoke. Then, “Come. Let’s see the bear.” The girl sat up without speaking and studied the room--the stove dark, the larder empty, the fiddle strings torn from their pegs. “Alright,” she answered, in the flat tone she shared with her father.
The girl pulled on her boots, though they were stiff and crimped her toes. She shivered to the creek and scrubbed her face with water that burned like snow. She hurried back to the cabin, though it was as cold as the outdoors, and took the wooden comb with the missing teeth and quietly brushed her tired hair, just as her mother had done, then strung it back from her face without a mirror to fix it. It was October, and the days had been warm, but the cabin was tucked in the thin canyon above Wagner creek where it remained covered in shadows long into the afternoon. Her winter coat was too small for traveling so she opened the trunk, without asking, lifted her mother’s heavy coat, and wrapped herself inside like an Indian girl.
Outside her father prepared the mule with leather satchels on the haunches, a folded army blanket for a saddle, and a braided strap for pulling. The girl came and stood by his side without speaking. When all was fixed, he set her on the blanket, just below the neck, and placed the knotted mane in her hands. He paused and took in her mother’s jacket, then lifted the dark oily strap, and led the quiet beast along Wagner creek, toward the highway. The girl knew not to speak, but after awhile her ache could no longer stay quiet, “I’m hungry,” she said, and then stiffened, uncertain if her father would turn angry. But he was too tired for anger and with weary eyes he said, “I know, dear. I know.”
Down the road they traveled, their thoughts soothed by the mule’s heavy feet. They came out from the trees and walked the dirt road between orchards. Halfway to town, father spied a patch of blackberries at the edge of a pasture. “Wait here,” he instructed, then carefully climbed the stone wall and walked between a handful of sleepy cows with smoking nostrils, until he reached a tumbleweed of vines. She waited while the mule nipped at the roadside clover, her stomach crying for food. To keep warm she rubbed her legs against the animal’s bristly belly and buried her fingers deep within the mane.
Her father returned just as the sun began to glow behind the Siskiyous. He opened his hands and gently offered a palm’s worth of red and purple speckled berries. “They’re past season, but it’s something. At least until we get to town.” She lifted them carefully into her own hand, and as the mule began to walk, she placed the berries one at a time into her mouth. Some were bitter, others washed out, but the last one was perfectly sweet and she rolled it with her tongue until it fell open.
The girl pulled on her boots, though they were stiff and crimped her toes. She shivered to the creek and scrubbed her face with water that burned like snow. She hurried back to the cabin, though it was as cold as the outdoors, and took the wooden comb with the missing teeth and quietly brushed her tired hair, just as her mother had done, then strung it back from her face without a mirror to fix it. It was October, and the days had been warm, but the cabin was tucked in the thin canyon above Wagner creek where it remained covered in shadows long into the afternoon. Her winter coat was too small for traveling so she opened the trunk, without asking, lifted her mother’s heavy coat, and wrapped herself inside like an Indian girl.
Outside her father prepared the mule with leather satchels on the haunches, a folded army blanket for a saddle, and a braided strap for pulling. The girl came and stood by his side without speaking. When all was fixed, he set her on the blanket, just below the neck, and placed the knotted mane in her hands. He paused and took in her mother’s jacket, then lifted the dark oily strap, and led the quiet beast along Wagner creek, toward the highway. The girl knew not to speak, but after awhile her ache could no longer stay quiet, “I’m hungry,” she said, and then stiffened, uncertain if her father would turn angry. But he was too tired for anger and with weary eyes he said, “I know, dear. I know.”
Down the road they traveled, their thoughts soothed by the mule’s heavy feet. They came out from the trees and walked the dirt road between orchards. Halfway to town, father spied a patch of blackberries at the edge of a pasture. “Wait here,” he instructed, then carefully climbed the stone wall and walked between a handful of sleepy cows with smoking nostrils, until he reached a tumbleweed of vines. She waited while the mule nipped at the roadside clover, her stomach crying for food. To keep warm she rubbed her legs against the animal’s bristly belly and buried her fingers deep within the mane.
Her father returned just as the sun began to glow behind the Siskiyous. He opened his hands and gently offered a palm’s worth of red and purple speckled berries. “They’re past season, but it’s something. At least until we get to town.” She lifted them carefully into her own hand, and as the mule began to walk, she placed the berries one at a time into her mouth. Some were bitter, others washed out, but the last one was perfectly sweet and she rolled it with her tongue until it fell open.
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