I’ve been somewhere. My mind struggles to remember the cornfields and fruit trees blooming like a young woman’s body and the places where men built shade homes for their families beneath the slender moon where their mother's wove her last blanket.
I feel I’ve walked this empty road before. Maybe in the month of the big harvest when The People left the canyon with wagons loaded with peaches and corn to take to relatives and to trade with their neighbors who live on the high windy mesas.
I am wandering the red rocks that once cradled them. I am kidnapped to this place. My wandering feet lead the way to where the Beauty cannot be captured with words or jails.
I hold nothing in my heart except the memories. I long for the comfort of my mother’s stories, cooking, anything. How she roasted the turkey golden brown. Her stories of her and my father in love in a world so different. A time where the War claimed and discard men & women like ashes.
Dust clouds billow above my head. The ground feels familiar, and I walk easily on the sand that flows from the mouth of the canyons. A crow glides a new pattern in the wake of grief’s echoes.
Thick ants watch this child inside return to a place of her ancestors. . “Ahhh,” the memories flow of a time that is linked to my genetics... A time like home.
Nana
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