Stopping to Look at Deer Brian Fanelli I remember countryside drives with you, clouds of dust from your Ford’s tires, trees that shaded us, pregnant with leaves in summer, branches that bowed to bitter winds in winter. I remember riding home with you after practice, when the moon hung low like a silver hook. You tuned into Froggy 101 for crooning country, or slipped an Elvis cassette into the tape deck, its track listing rubbed off from years of play. I used to imagine you at a school dance, your hair slicked back in a 1950s cool, as you asked my mom’s hand for a dance. She always sat shotgun with us, while I nodded off in back, my knees scrunched against the seat, until you slammed the breaks, pointed to deer, their heads cocked towards us, their eyes green like marbles. Now, years after your cancer, I still pause when I see deer, remembering how you turned the radio low, hushed Elvis, rolled down the window, waited for them to dash across dirt roads under the canopy of county side stars.
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