Respected Graves

I am seated on a chair resting upon a wooden floor supported by a concrete foundation poured and sealed into the earth that whirls in space without visible support. I am quite worried. This whirling sphere does not know its own future nor its past, and is traveling at a reckless speed into the dark. I hold my breath, expecting to crash at any moment with a star or comet, but I can’t hold my breath for long, and I begin to breathe in trepidation.

And here I thought I could take pride in my ancestral beginnings, the history of my tribe, their complications, their rise and fall, as if they had been the real beginning. My lordly Indian killers, god keepers, makers of cloth and slave runners, all who endured their life’s darkness are traveling with me in the dark in their respected graves.