I try to be your daughter. I try to make you my mother.
I think about other Native people who may read that piece and can, through the piece, feel a connection to those lands...feel that they are there.
On the drive to the crematorium, I think I make peace with your death.
It is Earth’s final snowfall / and everyone is here.
Did he think about telling me that summer, when there was nothing but us and the truck and the highway for miles? Maybe not, didn't want to ruin it all.
When I picture a flash fiction story done well, a story that's getting so much across in this tiny space, I imagine a little snow globe or something that's bursting with how much is going on inside it.
You keep the bones. I learned this as a girl, cleaning after a chicken dinner.
I was just taking some time off, I told myself. From college. But more and more it felt like from life.
The little bird’s so still, just looking up at me with those robin eyes, just staring like it sees what’s deep inside me, like it’s stunned by the horror of it. I think that’s when I begin to understand: sin’s damn personal.
The baby is so small, lying there on the changing table. If she fell she would surely break, maybe die. The woman repeats this: I cannot let you die, baby. I cannot let you die.