The Wind In The Trees

As we left the morgue, Grandmother Moon was shining through the tall pine trees and there was a freshness in the air. It felt like it was the the first breath I had taken or become aware of in days. I could hear the wind coming through the tops of the trees. We say the wind tell stories, U TEN ACH CHIMOO.

It came singing through telling all the winged ones, he is free. The bluebird has gone home and now he flies to the Great Mystery to talk to the angels. He is in the place that allows him to listen clearly and to see clearly, that which we miss here as we walk the Mother Earth. His head is no longer down. He sees the Great One now with eyes that can hold the beauty of all. All things were rejoicing for we are sending you a voice.

Tears flowed for the beauty of it all--for the No Place. I had walked through the No Place.

There was only the details now for the burial of his body. The tears no longer stung, but they ran for the pain of my relations and his son and his wife. A week earlier, we had sat on the banks of the Bonaparte Creek and ate apples that had fallen, "just for us," he had said. With our faces together facing and munching, we made our amends. Mostly mine, for today I walk the Red Road of Recovery.

"Hey boy,"I said.
"Don't call me boy," he laughed.
"OK then, Big Boy," I laughed.
I told him if I had ever hurt him in anyway in this lifetime, I was sorry.
"You never did," he said.
I laughed. He said he probably didn't ever do anything to me, but since we were coming clean, he was sorry if there was the remotest possibly of a little tiny hurt that he had done. I reassured him, there was none. We agreed times were hard when we were little, but we sure did all love each other. Yes, we agreed on most things. It was easy with him.

It seemed like a lifetime ago, his face and my face talking and laughing. Sitting beside the sweatlodge as the creek ran lazily by. The coyote called a lonesome call as the ole Grandmother Moon tipped over the trees. A promise of a light to show us the way home.

This I know to be just a small part of the stairway to heaven and each and everything is connected. Nothing by mischance. As I was strapping myself into my seat on the plane home, I heard the attendant say they had to phone the funeral home. I asked if there was a coffin on board. they looked at me weird.
"I think that is my brother," i said.
"Yes we're stopping to pick up a body soon in Comox."
It was him. It was where they had sent him before he'd fly home.

"Looks like its just you and I Randy," I said as we left.
So we flew over the mountains and I saw the inlet and the highway looked like a silver ribbon winding its way through the mountains. He had driven these roads lots of times. No more for you Randy. No more pounding tires, no more winding roads. You have traveled your last highway.

We weere above the clouds and the sky was bright with the morning light that burnt orange. Floating on the tops of cotton candy clouds, soft droning engines seemed to sing "Randy we are going home where our people wait for us. You will rest on the prairies where our ancestors lay sleeping. You who have gone before us, we will send you home in honor with our drums and our songs to guide you".