October Morning This morning, I woke to the sizzle and scent of my father frying potatoes and Spam. But he's been dead for twenty years. So I rose from bed, made my own eggs and toast, and teased my father's ghost for always pouring too much sugar in his coffee and too much salt on his food. I get lonesome for my father but, on mornings like these, that lonesomeness feels like quiet joy.
The Long Day, The Long Night At sundown and sunrise, my shadow is taller than me. None of us is who we believe ourselves to be.
The Reservation Broadcasting System
That was the summer
a broken television
served as the stand
for a smaller television
that worked.
The Gorgeous Chore Doing laundry, we'd find certain stones in our children's pockets. How did they choose which stones to keep? We don't know. But we'd create a Little Museum of Childhood by placing those stones on our shelves and sills. Twenty years later, our sons are now young men but those stones remain on display— adored and still.
Warrior Song
We were the Indian girls
and boys who sometimes
found arrowheads
in the reservation dirt.
We never searched
for them. They just made
themselves known.
We'd cradle them
in our palms and argue
about which one of us
was directly descended
from the carver
and hunter. Then
we'd return
the arrowheads
to the silt and clay
and resume
our daily play.
Observing the nuances of the preciousness of every day life - when one slows down to notice. Good journey. Thank you
Golden words of The Gorgeous Chore moved me to my core. I have also done this. I firmly believe that each of those stones has a story of its own.