Nobody is perfect, and in my family, everybody is the complete opposite of perfect.  Except for one, whose demeanor stops people in their tracks. The alpha of our wild wolf pack is .  His voice feels like the winter, cold and lonely, yet somehow manages to make you feel refreshed and warm.  As he moves, his scraggly hair bounces atop his head, struggling to keep up with his inhuman speeds. When he walks, he is a bear in the woods, big and brawny, determined and ready to push through all that is in his way.  As he bends over to talk to me, the smell of wood creeps through my nose. He smells of the kind of just chopped, fresh wood that is strangely sweet and sour at the same time.

No time before has any man been like this.  His cries are ghosts in the night, unseen and unspoken of.  This man is like a myth, the kind of sasquatch that you never thought was possible.  My father is the alpha of our wolf pack, and we all look up to him as our hero.