A Celebration Storm

Father took him deer hunting at thirteen. It was his first time and he shot a spikehorn clean through both lungs. When he came back carrying the thrown-shoulder dead, he was alive and empty. Mother clapped his back, raised her glass to the ceiling with an icy rattle, and told the clouds to gather a storm in celebration of a man. That evening the snow fell long, covering the house. Drifts plowed up against the birch pile. I tossed and my brother cried himself to sleep.

appeared in South Dakota Review

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