Weweni go. We’ve already gone west. We’re about halfway out the door mentally, at least. When I sleep, my body lets me see where my spirit went. Last night I was in a room full of almost-elders, their soft faces like frybread dough, the glow of would-be brown under their ghost-white wrinkles.
One of them, a darker woman covered in sunspots, smiled and told me where all the knowledge goes when colonialism hits hardest. I always assumed it was crushed like bones beneath black boots, crushed into a fine powder and beaten into the dirt. She shook her head. Pointed with her lips at a shadow out the corner of my eye.
“Everyone can find their way home,” she said. “Even you,” but she wasn’t talking to me, there. She meant for me to tell you–she was talking about you.
Even you, in the moments where you’re holding onto what’s left of your heart, halfway out of the kitchen or into the bedroom, that quick split second of “Why am I here, again?” When you shake your head and your eyes go soft. You sleep and your body remembers.