Walking The Road Home

Lying on a cot far from home, thinking of days where to just walk from
here to there is something more that just a walk, it is to taste light, the feel of wind, reaching out and with fingertips feeling the sage around. Each step, the sound of a familiar path, walking down the road to home.

Where is it, that place a spot just over the rise. Take me there, where the sound of my mothers voice laughs on the wind, the sound of my father at work silently speaks to me of the struggles of his life and his song to his family. Where are my brothers and sisters, the sound of their voices come to me and we talk about nothing except what happened last night, the movie just over there.

Grandfather, tell me the story of who I am and a little about yourself, how yor path brought you here. Tell me the stories of our youth of winter tales, the summer afternoons near cool waters. Talk to me of where we come from, how we came to be. I want to know about my people, and sing for me just once more the songs of our fathers. Yes I want to know all these things.

Grandmother, where are you, yes I can see you just over there, your smiling face and eyes that have seen my world and know the things of life, the sound of children's laughter and their cries. Tell me about how you met the old man, and how my mother and father came to know you and something about just a day when they were small. Tell me about your first place, the place you lived with and grandfather and let me taste your biscuits. But most of all let me hear you call my name.

I long to hear the sound of the small stones as I walk the path to home. That place just over the rise. I can remember its simple lines, and kitchen table and the taste of my favorite food there. All of these things I remember, my mind is the path to take me there so far away and yet so near.

I am far from home and miss it so, my friends remember me. You don't remember my name, but I am here waiting to be free, waiting to be free.

Speak it, say my name, tell stories about me, how I lived and if by chance you can take a minute write to me, just a word, to say, Hey brother, we have not forgotten you. Yes that would be nice just say a word.

All I wanted for Christmas was to be home, to walk through the door and to eat a simple meal, a chance to walk down the road just a little ways from home. Sweet sweet home, so far away but in my mind just a step away....

(I wanted to say Ayeehee'Lah' (thank you) to those Indian boys locked away in South Dakota, Oklahoma, California and Utah who sent me pictures drawn with pencil of their homes, remembrances of pow wow, the peyote bird, old girlfriends and pencil drawings of family gathered around them. We go many different roads, some are more harder than others, some make mistakes and have been sent away. Even these men long to be home for the Holidays and they have written to me and let me know they want to be free even for a few minutes.
rustywire