She Who Hears the Voice of Spirit I stand alone before our lodge listening as you call out to our father in your grief. Asking why my life was not spared when the arrow from an enemy’s bow found its mark. Why is your outpouring of pain filled with anger? It was not our father who directed the arrow into my heart. He is not to blame for this pain robbing you of your strength. . I enter our lodge to stand watching you as you kneel before the fire, your strong arms raised in supplication. I see the knife you have pulled from the sheath hanging on the leather belt you wear around your waist. I do not turn away as you slash your arms and chest letting the blood run freely down your body, in memory of me. Does the pain you feel quiet the unbearable pain in your heart? How I envy you your human body that can feel the blessing of the knife. How can my soul that is no longer of the flesh still bleed? My pain must continue to throb for there is no way to quiet its sharp reminder of what was. My eyes move to our couch still in wild disarray from our early morning moments together and I feel again the arrow enter my body. My heart cries against the pulling of my spirit towards those of our loved ones who have gone before. I cannot bear the thought of walking away from you, my love. You have been my protector the one who changed my body from that of an innocent young girl to the one you have claimed as your woman the mother of your sons. It was here in this village I first looked upon you… and now it is here where I must leave you. Written by Judith Ann McDowell Copy-write 2008 I thought my readers would enjoy another of my short Native American stories.
Posted on: Tue, 24 Sep 2013 21:27:33 +0000
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