Wes Coffey

It wasn't Papa's.

I knew his hand.

Papa used to blaze property lines with his pocket knife, and he did simple two-slash marks, never shapes.

This was somebody else.

I kept walking.

Found another one about a hundred yards down the path on a maple.

Same shape, same height, same freshness.

And then another one, and another one.

by the time i got back to the cabin i had counted fourteen of them fourteen trees all marked with the same shape all at about chest height all along trails i remembered walking with my grandfather thirty years ago somebody had been walking this land and they had marked it

i called my dad from the end of the driveway where i could get one bar of service i told him what i'd found i told him the stand was gone i told him about the carvings i asked him if papa had ever mentioned any kind of feud with neighbors or any trespassers or anything

He was quiet for a long time.

Then he said, ''Wes, you should come home.''

I said, ''What do you mean come home?''

He said, ''I mean get in your truck and drive home.

Right now.

Today.''

I laughed.

I thought he was joking.

He wasn't.

I could hear it in his voice.