Sin

The flash of the hall-light and flush of the toilet brings some of my consciousness to the surface. ‘Are you right son?’ He said while partially hiding behind the door.
I peak over the covers and see his silhouette cast across the wall. ‘Gis a minute, da!’ I grunt while turning in to face the wall, desperately trying to escape the cruelty of the light upon my dreamy eyes.
‘I’ll be waiting downstairs,’ he replies, clever to leave the door ajar, ensuring that the invading light from the hall will prevent any retreat back into slumber. Eventually I pry myself from the bed and go to the bathroom and brush my teeth. ‘Are you having breakfast?’ He asks as I enter the kitchen. ‘Nah, me trick stomach won’t allow me to eat this early,’ I mumble just before my belly growls loud and proud as if it takes pleasure in making a liar out of me.
          In the car we do not speak, he listens to the news on the radio while I day-dream to the landscape racing past the window. As we walk across the range my socks begin to soak through. The mid-autumn dew hovers above the blades of grass like an invading army, forced into a haphazard retreat from battle. ‘Would you care to go first?’ He asks with a tinge of excitement in his voice, a tone so rare one cannot help but notice its emission whenever it appears.
‘Nah, you go ahead,’ I answer while pulling my hood over my head and hugging my torso with my arms. ‘Are you sure?’ He asks while cocking his eye-brow as if it were the bow-string.
‘Yeah fire-away,’ I answer dismissive.
‘Like the pun, like it? Love it son, love it!’ He says with a beautiful smile that banishes itself too soon from his lips. His countenance becomes serious and business like as he takes aim. He releases and as usual the arrow strikes at the heart of the target. I always hated the way he refused to celebrate a good shot, or anything he ever did well for that matter. He steps aside and I step forward. I take aim and release, as per usual my shot inches wide and misses.
‘You’ve sinned, son,’ he said.
‘Bit harsh, da, it’s only a sport like,’ I reply, slightly taken back by his declaration.
‘No, son, you misunderstand, the literal meaning of sin is to, “Miss the mark,” which is what you have done, despite your capacity to hit the mark.’
‘Okay guess I’m a sinner then,’ I shrug.
‘Aren’t we all, son, aren’t we all,’ he says as he steps forward. ‘The trick as obvious as it seems, is to aim true. Now how does one do that? First, as with any endeavor it is imperative you always begin by asking questions such as; what is the mark? Why must I hit it? Are there consequences in success or failure to strike the mark? Second you must consider possible obstacles to striking the mark, this morning’s fog represents obstacles of the obvious sort; the wind represents obstacles of the unseen variety. Next more questions must be asked, what is the wind’s speed? From which direction does it blow? Then you must adapt according to your observations. Finally, you must abhor missing the mark so much that you ALWAYS repeat until you succeed.’ He looks at me; I roll my eyes and look away. ‘Da, why can’t you be too hung-over to do anything on Sunday mornings like other fathers?’ I say with more venom than I had intended. He ignores my comment and smiles just before releasing the arrow, it is another hit. ‘Enjoy me while you can, son, I shall not be around forever and you never know; you may miss me when I’m gone.’ I roll my eyes again and step forward. I take a deep breath and aim, I hold and can feel a hit, I am about to release when I change my aim, because if I hit the mark it will just help him believe how right he is; and I get a perverse pleasure in making him wrong. I release and my arrow goes wide as expected. It does not annoy him, which annoys me a great deal.
‘You see, son, in life, if you wish to make your mark, you must be consistent about hitting the mark. Abide in truth, strive to discern truth to the best of your abilities and apply, then your aim will be true automatically,’ he said before releasing. His third arrow joins the others, embedded right in the heart of the target.
          When I look back, sometimes I get angry because he protected me from his diagnosis. I get angry that he did not allow me to share in his pain; I get angry that had I known I might have appreciated him as much as he deserved, and maybe made the most of our time left. Most of all I get angry at myself for never listening, and buying into the great lie of youth, that I knew more than my better did. The older I get the more I reflect on that chilly windswept Sunday morning, and the more I realize that the man who I always believed to be took-in by his own folly, had thought me everything I needed to know in order to live successfully, the crafty aul-coot, and you know what? He was right as usual; I do miss him now that he is gone.