The only time an NDN pulls out their own photo album is when someone dies. My dad is in ours, so is my kokum and Mush and Roderick—and now, so was Roger. Whenever we used to bring it out, my aunties and uncles all gathered around and talked stories. The album was our allowance to remember. Everyone came to see the photos with bannock and stew and dried meat in hand. We ate, we drank, we laughed and cried in unison. My kokum had a story for every photo; stories that redeemed even the alcoholics and the baby daddies, stories that love and scream in pain in equal measure. It’s all there; we’re all there. But here, now, it’s just us two. And there are blank pages for my mom and me.
When I look back at these old photos, I see my family come alive; I see their youth, but I also see them aging and dying and living their lives. It’s overwhelming to think about all the stories that we’ve made, helped to tell, helped to create—our bodies are a library, and our stories are written like braille on the skin. I wouldn’t trade it for the world; I love the noise, the liveliness of voices that are laughing, arguing, bingo-calling, and telling stories in a too-packed home. In fact, I’d say, that’s my world.
We’re all here telling our stories in NDN time.
But the ironic thing I’ve learned about NDN time is that it’s an elixir of an excuse and a toxin of a measurement.
It’ll kill you, you know, if you love it too dearly.
And that’s the truth.