Drum Song

So we did all the things one has to do to bury a loved one. The day dawned clear and cold and our very breath was snatched away through mittened hands. The wind screamed and stung any skin left exposed. The minus 40 temperatures froze the tears, already stinging our eyes, when we greeted each of the people who arrived to share the pain of the man gone home. It was a homecoming and he'd have been proud of the crowd that pulled up to share the loss of him our brother.

The big doors of the church kept opening letting in family and friends as they searched for each other and sat in close family groups.
It was healing to finally sit with my siblings. It was the only comfort we had for days and we leaned in close to share our common pain. Our sorrow was great and cloaked us, as we held each other up.

Winston Wuttunee, my cousin and a revered singer, spokesman and entertainer, brought his ceremonial drum and walked down the aisle. Our people stirred and a rustling was heard through the crowd as we turned to get a look at the drum and the voice coming in that would reach out to sing him home.

We were startled to hear the minister, upon seeing the drum, announce that he, (Winston)could not sing or bring IT into the church, as they did not allow any pagan ceremonies. The people would not like it. Apparently, he hadn't looked out into the church at the sea of black shining heads and brown faces. He then informed us he had no control at the graveyard so we could do IT there.

The pain of grieving had taken its toll and all I could do was to turn away. It was just one more blow to a mind and body now running on grief alone that threatened to consume it.

I was out of my body and not aware of much of what he had to say after that. It was probably something that addressed love and understanding. He looked at our drum with eyes as cold the snow coming through the cracks in the church door.

The presence of my brother Randy was there and I could still see his eyes telling me, "Its OK. They don't know," and that he would always be with us. I could hear the cries and quiet sobs of our family and friends. It was good to be here in a common place. I thought of why we where there and it was so painful like an open wound.

Tears ran down and scorched my face while stinging my swollen eyes that could barely stay open. What was left at that time, I wanted to leave there because I knew that only time could heal the gaping hole in my soul. It seemed as if the only thing that I had left of him was pain, but that it was OK as it was connected to him. I knew that here I could find comfort in the midst of sorrow, for too soon, I'd have to do this on my own.

If ever I thought that I would fly off the planet, it was then, at that very moment. Only the hand of my sister kept me from leaving my body forever.

The voice from the front of the church kept on pushing me deep into by being as I reached to touch my brother's essence once again. "Its OK", I heard him say, "I am here".

I thought of the teachings that had lead me this far on my earthly journey. The grandmothers and the grandfathers who sang the song with the drums, the heart of our nation. I thought of a hilltop high in the mountains of Norway--a Golden Face that had appeared to me in another hour of need. It told me to look around, that everywhere I looked I saw the face of God. Randy again said, "its OK sis. I am here".

For an instant I let go and was whisked away to a mountain high and again, love and light filled my soul. I felt the edges coming together reaching to heal me. I let go of thoughts of pagan drums and people who speak these words, and forgiveness washed my soul and angels sang the song long forgotten.