I Aimed, Pulled the Trigger, and Fired
I didn’t even know what type of bird it was - when I had to shoot to kill.
I left the comfort of my bed
on an early Saturday Fall morning
to enter the unknown - a nearby forest
so that I could hunt with my father.
The canopy of trees further reduced the light from the overcast sky.
It was chilly, with a scent of damp moss present in the air
the ground wet from the morning mist.
I remember mostly silence
except for my breathing
and the sounds of my footsteps
and those of my father - crushing twigs, branches, dead leaves, plant life, and living insects
clearing the road
for my rite of passage
my childhood disappearing
with every footstep.
The bird
spotted by my father
a distance away
on a branch
of a colorful, majestic tree.
He handed me his gun
and gave me a quick refresher on how to hold, how to shoot, and what to expect.
The gun heavy
my arms starting to ache
my hands cold
and trembling.
And then I was told that I was ready
And so I aimed
pulled the trigger
and fired.
The bird remained motionless
and very much alive.
I fired once more.
Again
the bird, still there
unaffected
and at that moment I asked myself, if I would have to shoot again.
My father reloaded the rifle
and as I reluctantly took it from his hands, he looked into my eyes
and I wondered if he knew.
I fired again.
Again - I missed.
Then a fourth, and final time.
I returned the riffle to my father.
Nothing was said.
Nothing else was done.
I asked myself if one day I would be a hunter.
Before leaving the area
so that my father’s hunt could once again continue
I looked - for the last time - at the branch of the tree that once supported the bird.
It was gone - and I smiled.
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