![the secrets of the last wood the secrets of the last wood](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/44/7b/db/447bdb2029000c1c7353b3f5cafda990.jpg)
He looks deep into my eyes and I see clarity, or maybe that is one of those things that we make ourselves believe at the end. I want to help him, but he shakes me off. I want to beg him not to die, but that wouldn’t be right. I think about how he dug, how he finally stopped, how I thought he had given up after my mother left. My father stood in front of me, readying to take on anyone who came near me. We went to a bar three months ago, when he was still strong enough. My father has always made me feel safe, even now, even though I am now an adult with a child of my own. He just closes his eyes and rides it out. He has been in immense physical pain, but there are no tears.
#THE SECRETS OF THE LAST WOOD SKIN#
He has one of those tough exteriors where all the skin looks baked and hard, almost like his own tortoise shell. He used them his whole life, even in the flusher years in a country that no longer exists.
![the secrets of the last wood the secrets of the last wood](https://www.carriewithchildren.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/10/SOTW-DVD-Combo-art1.jpg)
On his deathbed nearly two decades later, my father takes my hand. He goes to those woods for the last time. And then one day, as he heads to his car, my father looks at me with dry eyes and says, “Not to day, Paul. I think I always knew that this place, this horrible place, was his secret destination. Most Saturdays he would pretend to be going on fishing trips, but I never really believed that. This is the first time I’ve spied on him like this. The tears cascade down his face in a freefall. I have never seen my father cry before not when his own father died, not when my mother ran off and left us, not even when he first heard about my sister, Camille.
![the secrets of the last wood the secrets of the last wood](https://images.gamewatcherstatic.com/screenshot/image/6/63/300066/3600-1551984817-319626620.png)
He does it with a fury, as though the ground has angered him and he is seeking vengeance. I am eighteen years old, and this is my most vivid memory of my father him, in the woods, with that shovel. The blade rips into the earth like it’s wet flesh. He raises the shovel up and strikes the ground. An awful, guttural sob forces its way up from deep in his lungs and out through his lips.