When I was little, Dad would take me out and show me simple things. I'd string the bow, or sharpen the arrowheads, but I'd never actually take any shots. He would show me how to use the bow, but it was always description and demonstration. Before I turned eight, he seemed to scoff at the idea of hands-on training.
After Mom was killed, he sped up the tutelage. He took me with him when he went hunting, which he had never done before, and he started letting me take shots now and then. I never hit anything at first, but it was at least nice of him to let me try.
He was also more talkative after Mom died; sometimes I think he was trying to compensate for her absence. He always tried to keep my spirits high and my troubles far-off. "You have my hair and Mom's eyes," He said to me sometimes, commenting on the black and the blue, respectively. He delivered it as though it was the finest compliment imaginable.
When Dad was dying he told me he wanted to be buried with his bow. But I kept it, so I could train. I'll make Dad proud.