I sometimes believe I may drown. That is when I stand at the edge and wonder if I will fall fall fall, thankful that my silks are held fast in my palm and between my fingers.
*
The man in the chair resembles my father. I assume. We haven’t spoken since. Kind eyes can keep secrets.
*
When the teakettle whistles, I think of the snow on the mountains in the distance. I travel so I can fly. Why do I take my vacations in places so cold and too familiar?
*
Some say we were given the name “Ojibwe” by the Cree because our language sounded like broken stutters to their ears. I feel so much more about me has been dictated by others. You would not know my name, my belly would not be full if my father had not believed a daughter who could weave her own web with Corde lisse would bring white faces into the tent.
*
There is a necklace. A heart on a thin silver chain. It dangles as I hang and people applaud.
*
Dangling from my first silks, four years old, I caught my finger in a twist. A hard pinch. “I can’t, Daddy. It’s too hard.”
“You can, my little crane. You will fly in your time.”
“It hurts.”
“Don’t be afraid. You think I want to lose a daughter?”
I spun and pretended there was no pain.
Kenneth Nichols teaches writing in Central New York and maintains the writing craft website Great Writers Steal. His work has appeared in a wide range of publications, including Main Street Rag, Crimespree Magazine, and Lunch Ticket. Join him in the fight to #MakeMoreReaders at http://books.
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–Art by Menerva Tau