We need to carry thick gloves and old blankets in the trunk so we can pick up roadkilled porcupines and pluck their quills to embroider sacred garments. And we also gather roadkilled birds because their feathers, if undamaged, can also be used to dance just like birds dance. And I remember the white tourists on the rez who smashed their car into an elk, and how they panicked, not knowing what to do, until my Colville Indian friend jumped out of her truck with a hunting knife and mercifully killed and dressed the elk before the meat went bad. And I need to say that my friend with the knife is movie star beautiful, so it's doubly hilarious to think of those white tourists baffled by the rez goddess pulling that elk's heart from its chest. And, yeah, the rez is comedy and tragedy because I could draw a map of all the places where rez Indians—my family and friends and enemies—died in car wrecks. Everytime I drive onto the rez and everytime I drive away, I use the roads where Indian were killed. I love some of them and some love me but I miss all of them. We belong to the same tribe. They're buried in the same graveyards where my parents and grandparents are buried. All of our parents and grandparents are buried in the same cemeteries. Row by row, they rest together. You want to know what it means to be a rez Indian? It means you know dozens of Indians who died at high speed. It means your engine is fueled by grief, shame, and rage. It means every road is haunted by ghosts who know your secret name.
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God that was transcendent.
I love the present tense used with loved ones,alive and dead. I don’t know if love has a physical weight but I agree it does exist beyond one’s physical life. As always, Thanks Sherman