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I’m old enough to mourn more and more old friends who’ve died. I remember the late friend who leaned across the powwow picnic table to grab honey for his fry bread then showed me the horsefly and wasp trapped inside the sticky jar. “Man,” he said. “Indians can't have nothing nice.” We laughed. He ate his bread unadorned. I worry that I’ll be the Indian who lives long enough to bury all the Indians he loves. So, Lord, here's my prayer, haphazard and scribbled: Please let me be the Indian who dies somewhere in the middle.
When I was considerably younger, I told my beloved Auntie Skeeze that I'd quit having birthdays. She informed me of my error: She who has the most birthdays, lives longest! She collected 94 before she gave it up. I've collected 80, and still counting. What she didn't tell me is that she who lives longest, says the most goodbyes. You are strong, Sherman. Live long enough to be sure each of your buddies has the send-off they should have.
Your poem touches me today---I've seen how growing old enough to outlive all your friends is miserable---I watched my mom as she continued on through the years, as she outlived all her best friends, her sister. After my dad died there was always a place she'd rather be: "Just shoot me so I can be in the grave with Daddy" she'd say, often.
I don't know how I feel about it. I run away from it all---always a dreamer, living in the realm of imagining forever.
Give me honey with everything inside!
Oh I loved your poem, because maybe I know what you mean---maybe being the last one standing is too lonely, just too much sorrow to hold...