Sometimes, Daddy, when I walk in the deep woods,
I remember the time you drove Mom and me
up to your hunting cabin, a little wooden shack
you shared with Mike and Okie every winter
when you went to hunt for deer. I was five.
The cabin, you said, was near Rose City, a name
that created wondrous images in my young mind.
It turned out there were no roses there. But
there was a woods that lined the road for miles.
Then we followed two dusty ruts, nearly overgrown,
for miles more. The cabin was one big room
with bunk beds, an ice box, and a big iron stove.
Mom stayed there to clean things up while
you took me on a long walk into the woods,
pointing out the rabbit scat and the poison ivy,
telling me how you would sit in the snow there
for hours watching for a buck to come along.
It was all so green, and the trees were thick
and towered to the sky. We listened to them
whispering to each other, and to the birds
and chattering squirrels. I had no idea
how to get back to the cabin. But I was never
afraid. Because you were there. And you
were strong and brave and a hunter,
and you knew everything. I loved you
then for taking me to this secret, magical place.
I love you now, even though you are gone.
And often, when I walk in the deep woods,
I feel you beside me, and I am never afraid.