|
By chris Date: 2007 May 02 Comment on this Work [[2007.05.02.13.10.13575]] |
|
They say when you were born your parents wrapped you in a blanket bought at the Blanco Trading Post and laid you next to some rain-blessed chamisa and prickly pear heavy with fruit just so you could look up at the sky. You were a child and I was a child living then in that small village ringed by the blue mountains. I dream of blue mountains even now. Years pass and people die. But not me - or you. Somewhere you're alive. Here it has been hot lately, and the sweat dries on my forehead even before I can wipe it away. The hogans wither and the straw bales dry out. The little children chase dust devils. No rivers here, no swirling eddies. (As you well know!) Ah, you would laugh if you could see little Begay playing out back clouded by dust in the cracked memory of a playa. (I do my best to keep them out of the arroyos because the rains, you know - they come in the evening and wash everything away.) But this letter is only to say - if the man in our village, the tall man from the Azee'tsoh Dine'é clan, can get the truck running again I will come to meet you along the road you're on as far as Flagstaff, maybe Tucson? |