He shows them to me in a dusty leather album
His rough hands turning the tattered
Yellow pages from the many years of his story telling
Old black and white still shots
Of every hunt he'd been on with his hounds
Although I don’t remember,
I was in a few,
Just a baby.

Pictures of
Every man he had ever guided,
Every cat he had treed,
Every new pup on their first outing.

Runnin’
to catch up to the hounds hot on a track
holdin’ back a pup from the rest of the pack

Runnin’
through the thick powdery snow
breathing heavily packing his rifle

Runnin’
to see the newest capture
the dogs baying treed at the base of the big pine
eagerly awaiting their master

Runnin’
to save the young hound
from a bob cat that had come out of the tree

My memory
the only cat hunt I can recall
sitting on my father’s shoulders
three years old
Papa under the tree
pointing at the hissing 200 pound Tom

The stories
I will never forget
I look into my Papa’s fading blue eyes
I catch that spark in them that I remember form when I was a little girl
For that moment in the his story he is young again
Rejuvenated
Forever holding onto his youth
By sharing old memories with me