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.