The first thing that hits him is the stench. The overpowering odor of rot and decay.
The buzzing of flies is a loud continuous drone in his ears.
He coughs, gagging, bringing his kerchief to his mouth. 1/
“You said you wanted to go to the hunting grounds. Hunt the mighty buffalo. Here you are!”
The tourist looks out over the buffalo carcasses littering the fields.
“This isn’t a hunting ground. It’s a graveyard. God have mercy.” 2/
COVID is a meaningless word, and 160,000 more Americans are alive.
I’m at a dinner party. Not my idea.
I’m kind of antisocial, truth be told.
It’s not that I don’t like people.
I’m just not much of a party person.
I gravitate to the periphery. 3/
I’m supposed to be networking here, but instead I’m sitting by myself, watching.
Putting faces to names. Observing.
A man and a woman join my table. 4/
He seems brash, and makes broad, sweeping gestures.
She seems amused by his stories.
I assumed they were a couple, but apparently they’re not.
He’s telling her about a book he’s written. 5/
The woman nods, her interest now clearly waning.
The man looks to me. “Hey, buddy, you would read my book right?”
I blink, answering reflexively, “Sure, sounds great.”
He beams. 6/
I think about his book, the “epic.”
Buffalo. Their story isn’t an epic.
It’s a tragedy.
“Buffalo Bill” Cody killed 4282 buffalo in 18 months.
Millions were slaughtered. 7/
The market for buffalo hides was red hot.
A confluence of factors led to a massacre, to the verge of extinction. 8/
Stories matter.
Who tells them.
What they have to say.
What they include.
What they leave out.
Who gets to listen to them.
Who is silent. 9/
Some will see tales of conspiracy and subterfuge, or failures and incompetence.
Others will see service, and sacrifice.
The living. The dead.
The empty spaces left behind. 10/
The numbers of critically ill COVID patients are finally subsiding, through recovery or death.
The intensive care unit is empty, all the patients transferred out, so it can be cleaned and take non-COVID patients once again.
There is a stillness here. 11/
It is ungainly. Slow.
A lone buffalo making its way from one empty dead space to the next. Breathing light into chilled air.
Each room has memories.
Needless loss.
Ghosts.
I look away. 12/
“Just for the hides! Such slaughter! Madness!” The tourist is aghast.
The guide grins, “It is what it is. A damn good sport. Ahead, I see one!”
A lone buffalo wanders through the carnage.
Each breath fogs in the chill air.