1. i’m beginning to learn that home isn’t where your heart is.
  2. i still have the key to my kokum’s old house, the one she lived in for years before my grandpa walked on.
  3. the house was old, held together by laughter and fights and loud Cree shouted through the telephone.
  4. the table in the kitchen, in the corner, by the doors that lead to the greying-wood balcony, is worn down on the side where grandpa used to sit and play solitaire with a ratty deck of cards.
  5. “i’ll give you $5 if you eat this pickled herring” he would laugh and drink his iced tea out of a measuring cup.
  6. after he passed kokum sat in the same spot playing with the same cards. small, wrinkled, brown hands shuffling and reshuffling grief and sadness.
  7. home is where two rivers meet that i’ve never put my feet in but i know the stories of cattail roots and muskrats.
  8. we’ve been following the same sidewalks and back alleys for a few years now, finding ourselves in late night stories and empty cans of cheap beer
  9. we come home early in the morning and sit on the back porch and through cigarette smoke and quiet laughter we retell each other our night.
  10. i’ve made houses out of hands and ribcages and homes out of memories and promises.

One Comment Add yours

  1. This is hauntingly beautiful. So happy to discover your work Sam!

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