First Nations

Photo: Weston MacKinnon on Unsplash; Saskatchewan, Canada

“Look Papa!” the boy’s voice rose in excitement.

“I see,” the man replied. His deep voice resonated in the small space.

“You didn’t even move your head,” the young eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“I did not need to.”

The child exhaled and shook his head and the movement reminded the man of a yearling. Impatiently straining at the edge of youth, eager to race headlong into life.

The man eased the pressure on the pedal and moved his foot to the other, stopping the car.

“I am looking now,” he smiled. “Thank you, Son.”

The boy’s eyebrows rose but he asked nothing. They watched the buffalo together, the sun and field and beasts a golden-brown.

“Is this their farm?” the boy finally asked.

“It is their home,” the man replied. “The farm came to live on it.”

The boy nodded, his ancestors evident in his soulful eyes. “They are like us.”

For What Pegman Saw

Photo: Adam Ickes

“They do not remember who they are.”

The old man’s voice was somber without judgment. A skill born of patience shaped by the combined weights of history and time.

“It is why I brought them here.”

The elder regarded his visitor. His dark eyes pools of wisdom deeper than the lines upon his skin.

A silence stretched.

“They will not find it in this place,” Sorrowful Skies said finally.

Disappointment filled the woman’s face.

“They will sleep in the lodge tonight,” he added. “Tomorrow, they will walk like their ancestors. In bare feet on breathing land. Then they will remember.”

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