It's almost seven a.m. Albuquerque time. Waiting for the shower then will pack up my sister's van, check out and then begin the drive to Oklahoma with everyone else who will be traveling during the highest traveling weekend in the history of the U.S.. How do "they" know these things? Last night the room was filled with children and birthday cake. My granddaughter Desiray turned nine years old. We came back to the room for cake and gifts after dinner at Sadies, one of the best local Mexican restaurants. This morning there's only the hum of the air conditioner. Quiet, relative. I still find my spirit lingering in Peru, along the Amazon, in the Sacred Valley. And some of it is here. When I drive these streets I am driving memory. Over there I'm pushing a stroller filled with laundry, over there I jumped out of Geary's VW several of us were packed in after leaving the bar and took off running. I played several times in this hotel with Poetic Justice at different conferences. This morning there's relative peace. I'm working on a new song, looking for the right chords on the guitar. This one started with the melody. Called "Fly Away". I am closer to death than I've ever been, though may be death has always been riding my shoulder. My friend M.C. left us last Tuesday. She told me to pray for her release when I asked her what I could do for her the week before: me calling from Hawaii, her body shutting down in Studio City, CA. I was told her spirit filled the room when she lifted out of the wreck of her body. She was ecstatic, then she left. I will miss talking planetary geometry with her. In my dreams I applied for medical school, was writing a letter to admissions as to why I should be admitted with my background. A female doctor asks me to sew up her hand because it needs to be done now. She has no painkiller. I say yes. A tendon is loose, flying. I thread the needle. This was one of my early dreams, why I went to college. This is the road. All of it.
Posted by Joy Harjo at 3:02 AM