i used to sit in our garage and watch my father work diligently on those little carvings. he'd scratch away at the surface of the wood with his knife, and as each sliver cut away, falling effortlessly to the floor, a form would begin to take shape.
a solid block soon became a tucked wing, filled with tiny detailed feathers. each duck was more lifelike than the previous.
often i would stare at the row of wooden birds sitting atop a bookcase in our guest bedroom, and imagine them blinking their eyes, then taking flight in a great rush of feathers flapping over my head.
sometime around my middle school years my father completely stopped carving decoys. work kept him busy. as did routine upkeep on our house.
his woodworking tools blended in with the rest of the garage - on a shelf above our camping equipment, to the right of old cans of paint. eventually i forgot they existed.
years later, in a freezing duck blind, i watched a wounded drake mallard take its final breaths at my feet. its mouth opened and closed, but no noise escaped. i should've felt something for this bird. i should've felt sorry for taking its life. i didn't.
the only thing that came to mind was how much i missed sitting on that old paint-stained stool watching dad carve.
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