Dad died last week. Just keeled over while putting the chains on his tires. Doctor said it was probably stress. Said there were nail marks in his palms scarred decades deep. The next feed is just after the first snow. I thought of getting my daughter to come along. But I can't do that. I never stopped having that dream about my bones growing soft. Sometimes I think I feel it when I'm awake.

I do remember one thing from the talk. We saw a bird sitting on a log just a dozen feet away. It didn't move the whole time we were there, even when I pitched a twig at it. It just twitched its beak and looked at us. It made us really angry, and we couldn't understand why.

Just a few years ago the old truck broke down on the way back, scarcely a mile away from the plate. He didn't have the part he needed, so we had to call a tow. While we were waiting, we talked. It was long. I don't remember most of the conversation. It's just missing.

I remember the drive always used to take a different amount of time. One year it was six hours round, the next it was only two. We'd take the same long road that passed by the old dead quarry, every time. The truck didn't change, just the land.

I've never seen my father cry; he wasn't a statue, he just came from that old, rusty regiment of men that plain didn't believe in it. He didn't even cry when we fed the land. He just looked, and behind the look I could see him trying to hollow himself out, just a little bit.

We always tried to make a day of it, act like it was just another drive. Stopped for burgers or hotdogs at this one place on the way that boasted "The Freshest Beef in the State". They closed after the sixth trip. After all those kids got sick at the birthday party.

My father used to feed it alone-- he'd take his beat up old Chevy, the bed loaded up with a couple goats or maybe half a dozen chickens. One year he came back with his nails all bloody and couldn't stop shivering. Since then he always took me with him.