It was the year Daddy went hunting. He returned with a fawn in the back of his rusty truck, a poppy-shaped wound in the brown-and-white-spotted body, inches above the front leg. Look, how beautiful! he pointed a gloved finger to the snowflakes stuck in the animal’s still open eyes, the eyes on the head he later mounted in the family room, the eyes watching us sip cocoa, our faces glowing around the flames in the hearth.
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