The morning smelled of iron, earth, and smoke.
Pa called me to the shed behind our house before the sun had fully risen. He stood with a bundle of cloth on the wooden table and a kettle already steaming on the stones.
"Time you learned something," he said.
Inside the cloth was a rabbit—freshly caught, limp and still.My hands twitched before I even touched it.
"I've never skinned one before," I admitted.
Pa nodded. "Good. That means you'll listen close."
He didn't rush. That was one of the things I liked about him. He moved like the world would wait.
He showed me how to place the knife—not too deep, not too shallow.Where to cut along the legs.How to pull the skin clean without tearing.
At first, it felt wrong—pulling something apart that had been whole.
But Pa's voice was steady.
"We respect what we take," he said. "You eat what you kill. You use what's left. Waste nothing. That's the only fair trade."
I didn't answer, but I nodded. My hands worked slower than his, but careful.
He watched me with those dark eyes of his—not judging, just making sure I learned.
When we finished, he set the skin aside, wrapped the meat for Ma, and then gestured for me to bring out my dagger.
I unsheathed it, laying it on the cloth between us like it was something sacred.
"Show me how you clean it."
I hesitated. "I wipe the blade after I use it."
He gave a grunt—not angry, but amused.
"That's a start," he said, pulling a small jar of oil from a shelf.
He showed me how to oil the blade with a soft rag. How to check the edge with the tip of your thumb, how to clean the handle so it wouldn't slip. How to sharpen it with slow, even strokes.
"This," he said, holding the dagger up, "isn't just a weapon. It's a tool. If you treat it like it's just for hurting things, it'll forget how to be useful."
I watched the blade catch the firelight.
"Tools will carry you farther than pride ever will," he added. "But only if you take care of them. Like anything."
The sun was climbing now, warm on the wood.
I helped him clean the table, wash the cloths, and hang the skin to dry.
He didn't say much more, and I didn't need him to.
Some lessons are made of words.Others are made of silence and hands working side by side.
Later that day, I took out my sketch cloth.
I drew Pa's hands—thick-fingered, steady, lined with years.The knife in his grip, not raised, but resting.A tool. Not a threat.
Then I wrote underneath:"Take care of the things that take care of you."
It was a quiet thing.
But I think he'd be proud.