You Wanted Hawk Feathers

I told my parents I wanted a dream catcher.

They were in Arizona, travelling somewhere touristy.

Red Rock, Sedona, maybe even visiting the Navajo.

I didn’t expect anything real.

I half meant it, half didn’t.

I figured they’d bring back something plastic and colorful,

adorned with dyed feathers.

But they surprised me.

It was handsome - the perfect size.

Leather wrapped tight, beads small and earth-toned.

It didn’t feel cheap - it had substance.

It felt like someone’s hands had created it with purpose.

I loved it, except for the feathers.

I don’t know why I said it, but I did:

“Damn, I wish these had hawk feathers.”

It was just a throwaway thought.

It wasn’t a request.

Not too long after, my father knocked on the door

of my apartment in Williamsburg, Brooklyn.

No phone call first - just a knock.

He was holding a thin, crinkly plastic bag -

I think from Western Beef or C Town.

He handed it to me like it was just lunch or tools.

And in his Italian came,

“You wanted hawk feathers.”

That’s it. No “hello.” No, “How are you?”

But inside - Jesus!

Inside were hawk feathers -

Red Tail.

The whole bag - full of them.

Deep brown, creamy streaks and spots -

reddish ends, the color of old brick.

I asked where he got them, but I already knew.

He said it plainly in the first language I ever heard.

“Su par io.” - his old dialect.

Or “upstate” in English. From his land in Wallkill,

New York where he hunted.

Like it was no big thing.

Like delivering on a promise

that came from an innocent wish a loved one made -

as if it was simply something you did,

even if it meant a single shot bringing something wild down from the sky.

I know it was wrong.

I know Red Tails are protected, and it wasn’t his to take.

But that wasn’t how he thought.

My father wasn’t cruel - he was old-world.

You ask for a thing, and he gives it.

Maybe not the version you meant,

but the real thing - with blood on it.

With dirt still clinging.

He wasn’t thinking about laws or wildlife preservation.

He was thinking my son wanted hawk feathers - so here.

And in their presence,

and with them dangling,

I felt a truth -

a wild authenticity,

the kind of realness no souvenir could ever touch.

And in that bag,

my father

was wild as any bird.