Purgatory

Purgatory is a deer stand in November, a folding chair in the top half of a rusted-out fire tower we salvaged from Dad’s Smokejumper days and dragged out to state forest land, a barren waiting room surrounded by forty acres of old-growth red and white pines. In the time of the timber barons, this Lost Forty Acres was mistakenly surveyed as a lake. There was no money to be made in chopping down water. Purgatory is a clerical error. Flannel did little to insulate my bones against a salvaged fire tower and the cold steel of a 30-06 across my lap. Whiskey did little to insulate my mind. I trudged out at dawn and the eager brightness in my eyes faded hours ago. Instant coffee in my thermos had long gone cold. Forty minutes, forty hours, forty days waiting on this lost forty acres. Having not yet killed or shown mercy. Waiting. Grandpa always said that time is the one trap no man or deer can outrun. As the coals of daylight faded, He stepped through the radiation fog. Twelve points holding the dying sun. Cold steel on my cheek. I put the crosshairs on his shoulder. My finger quivered, and I heard him whisper, “There’s only one way out of purgatory, son. Can you pull the trigger?”