My Pa used to take me shooting. It was his favorite thing, we’d always go to this clearing on the property, and set up an apple twenty yards from a bench we would sit at. It wasn’t a matter of sighting it in, as I would always see him plink the apple effortlessly every time we started. He would take the first shot, reset the apple, and hand the rifle to me.

I wasn’t really a tomboy, and the activity brought me no pleasure. But I didn’t want to let him down, and it seemed to be the only way we could connect over the years. I didn’t have any friends; we lived so far away from town it was all I really knew. When he handed me that rifle, I wanted to make him proud, and I would try my best every time to bullseye the shot.

I would hear his words before he spoke them, as he would repeat them methodically.

“Keep your finger off the trigger until you’re ready to shoot.”

“Hold it tight to your shoulder.”

“Rest your cheek on the stock.”

“Look through the scope, but not too close. It’ll bite ya.”

“Find your target.”

“Once you have it, steady your aim.”

“Take a deep breath, and pull the trigger.”

Each weekend we would go to the clearing. Over time my aim improved, but the shot wasn’t always easy. Sometimes my heart just wasn’t in it. Sometimes the apple would fall. Most times I would hit the apple. Other times I would miss. My Pa didn’t scold me when it happened, he would just tell me to focus. If the apple didn’t fall, I was to try again, racking the old bolt and sending the old brass to the wind. I would try harder, and on the times I got it right, he would smile at me, and take us home and have ice cream.

When I started making the shot consistently, his smile would falter. No ‘that’s my girl’, or ‘excellent shot’, nothing. His face slowly turned to stone, until the smile was no more than a tight lipped line. By the time I didn’t miss anymore, we didn’t speak at all. No cheery ride home along the long dirt path, no ice cream at home. Just straight into the house, and into my room for the rest of the night.

The next week, I wasn’t allowed out of my room. The time passed dreadfully, thinking of nothing but the next shot, and hoping I could do it better so he would be proud again. When the next weekend came, things changed.

It was my sister’s turn to shoot. Even after begging for one last turn, he still handed the gun to her. She wasn’t calling him Pa yet. Looking at her trembling hands made it harder to keep the apple steady.

“Keep your finger off the trigger until you’re ready to shoot.”