I didn’t know whether to be excited or run away.  Guns scared the crap out of me, but I couldn’t tell him that.  I liked going with him to hunting camp.  I loved cooking over the fire, telling stories, and not taking showers.  I just didn’t like the hunting part.  But I really couldn’t tell him that.  I was his only son, his last chance to pass on all this outdoor stuff he loved because my older sisters sure weren’t interested.  If it didn’t involve a boy or a shopping mall, they were definitely not interested.  He bought me a shotgun when I was 10.  I really wanted a bike.  A red mountain bike with knobby tires and a water bottle holder even though I probably would never go outside my neighborhood, but boy would I look cool.  But instead I got a shotgun.  I knew he would take me with him to learn how to shoot, and that would be fun right?  I mean, I guess. 

I started to panic.  What if something went disastrously wrong where I totally showed my lack of ability in a way that he would never trust me enough to show me again, or even be able to look at me the same way? Dad handed it to me, and it was way heavier than I ever had imagined. He stood behind me, bracing my back for the kick he said.  What kick?  What kind of a kick?  I didn’t want to ask, because from how he said it, it seemed like he thought I knew.  I didn’t want him to know I didn’t know.  That would sound stupid.  I could feel his belt buckle poking me in the back, but the comfort of him standing behind me was worth it as I stared down the middle of the two barrels and the line it made to the little black notch at the end.  Closing my left eye, I brought the black notch into the center of the target and tried not to breath as I quickly prayed “God, please don’t let me screw this up.” 

“Cock it.” He said behind me with his raspy voice that seemed to choke up out of his smoker’s lungs. 

“What?”

“Cock it.”  He placed my thumb on the hammer and pulled it back, and I suddenly felt the taste of my breakfast already half digested in my mouth.