The hunter’s speech (or its translation) is poetical…and he gives the eagle a parting gift? I’m going to cry!
The landscape looks beautiful and dry like my homeland. See how clean and pure it is.
My brother killed a deer and there will be venison steaks to eat for Christmas. He waited in the tree stand with his rifle. I can smell the cold air from here, as I write this. The place where I was born has the best-smelling air on earth and the water is so hard it barely lathers in the bath. It tastes like quartz and it’s so clear that you can’t tell the depth of the stream. You could judge it as ten inches deep, and then step into it and find yourself in water up to your hip.
I said, I hope you didn’t make it suffer. I am not sentimental and Lord knows I’ve always helped him eat the animals he takes, from chukar to hare to elk to trout, but I have never been entirely comfortable with his hunting.
(Although really…if I am honest with myself, which of us is the more violent person…? And why…?)
I heard him take a drag on his cigarette over the telephone, thousands of miles away. I pictured his hands. Everyone in my family has hands as hard and strong as a piece of garden stone from the time we are about fifteen years old (my brother, a lean young man, can crush two walnuts together in his fist). I am the only exception.
“Two shots, Sis. Not a second apart. One to the heart and one to the brain. She didn’t know what hit her.”
A bullet to the heart and a bullet to the brain.
The perfect summation of my childhood.