At The River's Edge

I stood at the river’s edge,

bare feet sinking into wet earth,

and I whispered nothing at first.

I only breathed.

I only listened.

And the river carried them to me.

The air shifted,

heavy with cedar and smoke,

and I felt their shadows rising 

not ghosts,

but presence,

not lost,

but waiting.

I did not ask them to come,

and still,

they came.

I felt the weight of their silence first,

deep as the riverbed,

wide as the sky.

Then came the sound 

ribbon skirts brushing against skin,

beads clicking like rain against bone,

the scrape of stone on hide,

the low hum of song

that has outlived the tongues

forced to forget it.

I knew then:

they had been here all along.

Watching.

Measuring.

Waiting for me to come close enough

to hear what could never be spoken.

They did not greet me with words.

They showed me.

I saw their hands,

working beaver and deer hides

until the skin turned soft and alive again,

pulling the fur into warmth

to wrap their children against winter’s teeth.

I saw their fingers,

dark with earth and dye,

weaving stories into ribbon skirts,

each thread heavy with prayer,

each hem a map of survival.

I saw medicines gathered at dawn...

sage crushed between palms,

roots coaxed gently from damp soil,

wildflowers steeped into teas

that could call fever back from the edge.

I saw cedar smoke curling upward,

not to ask for blessing,

but to give thanks

for simply being alive another day.

And in that showing,

I understood:

I am their vision.

They endured silence

so that my voice could rise.

They carried untold names

so that I could carry them without shame.

They softened their hands with labor

so that mine could hold both art and prayer.

They traded their safety for my standing stillness.

They bore everything,

and yet...

they gave it forward to me.

I bowed my head,

not from unworthiness,

but from reverence.

My body was shaking,

but the earth beneath me was steady,

rooted in them.

I let the river carry my gratitude,

let it braid through the currents,

back into their hands,

back into their breath.

I told them:

I see you.

I honor you.

I am here because of you.

And the wind moved through the trees,

lifting cedar,

lifting water,

lifting song.

It was not a reply,

but I understood it anyway.

I am walking where they already walked.

I am making where they already made.

I am listening where they once stood silent.

And someday,

when my own breath has left my chest,

I will stand behind someone like me,

at the edge of another river,

and show them everything

they have always carried inside their bones.