Medicine Walk

She only nodded. "It's all we are in the end. Our stories.

Sometimes when things get taken away from you it feels like there's a hole at your centre where you can feel the wind blow through, that's sure.

There was a feeling in him like a bruise, a purple ache that set between his ribs. He tasted a cry building at the back of his throat. It was too familiar and made him fearful.

ya prove who ya are in the day yer in.

He held his hand up to his face and licked the wound. Blood. Old-tasting and rich like the sediment of a river. He looked at Jimmy. The blood on their faces meant they were part of the same stream now, bobbing in the current, borne forward effortlessly under the slowly twirling dome of the sky.

She had a way of brushing her hair back from her face with one hand, slowly, using the tips of her fingers, closing her eyes briefly, and he was entranced by that. The sheer pleasure she took in it.

She's a tale spinner," he said. "She spins 'em right outta the air. Tells 'em whole so's you'd think yer readin' a book.

He smells funny,” the kid said. “He’s been rinsed through pretty good.” “With that whisky?” the kid asked. “Yes, sir. Some men take to it. I never did.” “Why not? Does it do bad things?” The old man looked at him over his shoulder. “Keeps varmints away,” he said. “How so?” “Savvy what a varmint is?” “Yeah,” the kid said. “Pests. Things you don’t want around.” “Well, whisky keeps things away that some people don’t want around neither. Like dreams, recollections, wishes, other people sometimes.” The old man turned on the stool and set the milk pail down on the floor between his feet. “Things get busted sometimes. When they happen in the world you can fix ’em most times. But when they happen inside a person they’re harder to mend. Eldon got broke up pretty bad inside,” he said.

There was a feeling in him like waiting for a punishment.

Jimmy used to say we’re a Great Mystery. Everything. Said the things they done, those old-time Indians, was all about learnin’ to live with that mystery. Not solving it, not comin’ to grips with it, not even tryin’ to guess it out. Just bein’ with it. I guess I wish I’da learned the secret to doing that.

Even if I’m wrong, there’s worse ways to live than stopping to thank the mystery for the mystery.