The first time I remember my parents being in the same room was quiet. Mom was cold. I thought of all the things she’d told me about Dad and couldn’t look at him. Then I grabbed my suitcase, and my little sister started to cry.
I climbed into my dad’s little truck with the snug top and switched on the car fan, which was always my job. He played music I’m sure, but I don’t remember anything about that long drive back to Arizona. Not the trees disappearing, or the mountains, or the desert. I must have fallen asleep.
At first, I could see nothing but the headlights and the yellow lines on the two-lane road. I wasn’t sure what woke me. It was achingly dark. The moon was hidden by trees and there were no stars. We were in the middle of nowhere. Then I saw them.
Their eyes glowed yellowish as they lined the little road on both sides. It felt like there were hundreds of them. Dad slowed way down. He brought his finger to his lips, signaling me to be quiet. He didn’t have to. I didn’t want to break the spell either. I could just make out the deer’s antlers. There were lady deer too, stock still. Eyes wide. Waiting.
We crawled through their ranks, and the rest of the night vanishes into the starless past. Sometimes there are no answers.
Sophia McGovern is a creative nonfiction writer and occasional poet living in Tempe, Arizona. She founded Little Somethings Press, which publishes flash fiction and memoir, poetry, and art in handmade books. Her bookmaking, poetry, and zine workshops have received grants from the City of Tempe and the Mesa Arts Center. Her writing has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, won community contests, and performed in literary events around Phoenix. She received a 2024 Research and Development Grant from the Arizona Commission on the Arts to develop her creative nonfiction work. Her writings can be found in Awfully Hilarious: Volume II, The Arizona English Journal, The Dreamers Anthology, and elsewhere. In her spare time, she collects yarn, paper goods, and hobbies.