Doves and Sunflowers

I followed my father into the open field, not so interested in learning how to shoot but to spend time together. So many afternoons I had watched him teach my brother how to aim at the still can targets. I would stare at the tall trees surrounding the cinder lakes in northern Arizona somewhat watching but moreso daydreaming about other places while he showed my older brother how to aim. I was six - too small for the kick from the shot gun. I put my fingers in my ears and looked off into the distance.

But today, with a small pellet gun, he would teach me. In the field of wild sunflowers, he began to explain to me.

“This is the safety,” he said. “It is very important to leave it like this when you are not using it.” He demonstrated by sliding it into locked position.

“Yes,” I said, understanding.

“See this at the end of the barrel there? You want to line it up with this triangle.”

It made sense. He handed me the pellet gun. I held it gently and tried to line it up.

Birds feathered overhead. Doves. I thought of the afternoons at the picnic table in the yard of a family friend where we were tasked to prepare them. Gut them. Remove their soft feathers and the black pellets from the breasts. On the wooden, splintered table nothing remained of those white birds except a deep red hand-sized heart shape.

In the field, my father continued on, explaining physics to me, how to account for the birds in the air, the speed of the bullet and the speed of the birds. But we were surrounded by thousands of wild sunflowers. How could I look to the sky with all of those bright yellow flowers distracting me? I saw a thousand targets, so much simpler than the birds. They swayed slightly with the dry breeze but were relatively still.

My father continued talking. The physics of flight made as little sense to me as the fractions he explained while lying on the ground under his truck as he had me hand him a quarter this or a quarter that wrench. While he stood in front of me in the field, pointing at the sky and going on and on, I saw a perfect opportunity. Line the tip with the triangle. I held the gun to the brown center of the flower before me. I can do this! Placing pressure on the trigger, I squeezed it firm. My moment, my victory, was cut short. Suddenly my father was yelling. Did I hit him? Why was he yelling?

“What are you doing?!” he hollered. “You could have hit me, Melody! You do not shoot a gun when someone’s is in front of you!”

This did not make sense. My brilliant moment of hitting my bright target vanished. My father did not see the merit in how much simpler it was to aim at the flowers than the birds.