This is Joy Harjo's ongoing journal of dreams, stories, poems,music, photographs, and assorted reports from her inner and outer travels about Indian country and the rest of the world .
My mother fell, she has reached the 90th winter, and she fell, the blood was red the cut was deep, the heart ache is real, we want to care for all those we are left with, and sometimes all that we do cannot cover all that may happen, the fall gave her time again, with me, as we waited for the people who "sew" such things back together and the people that check the heart and all the frail bones fo those that reach 90 winters,........she shared with me ............again ......about her cold feet, about how my father for 60 years always was able to warm her feet, today his passing is 15 winters ago, and she still wakes wondering , "Why arn't you warming my feet,Charles?".....then she knows he's not there , he is waiting for her in the place they'll go, into the next passing......I need to hear her words, I can again love my lover, for all that she is..........for I have her NOW........We need to learn to love those we have now...Mother doesn't think she teaches anymore, I must tell her how much she has taught, me her son,
I, too, saw a walking stick on my screen door the other evening. I didn't get a photo. Thanks for sharing yours.
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