The Hunt

My Father used to hunt in order to put food on the table.  I went out with him every year, loving our time together.  Waking up in the early morning hours and getting dressed in the warmest clothes I owned.  In the still of those early hours I remember smelling the coffee as the percolator hissed while I pulled my wool socks on.  Later in my high school years I remember that he carried his gun and I carried my camera.  He never once questioned this difference between us.  Trudging through the snow, I'd stretch my legs to step in his tracks.  These times seem such a distant memory now, but I can see them clearly through the lens of my camera today.