Niizhwaasimidana

in honor of Joy Harjo’s “Becoming Seventy”

My father said to me

the most important word to know is migwech

when you get up in the morning

you should thank God for making you an Indian

at seventy I remember what he said

he never spoke without first giving thought

but at seventy I cannot remember

the times and places, where he said this, and when

was it driving west in his green truck at sunset

late winter giizis orange against purple clouds;

or waiting inside the entryway of the public library

for the rain to let up—back home, the roof held

where he and Uncle Ray had fixed the biggest leak,

the boards covering where Ray’s leg had dropped

through rotting wood miraculously dry

or after an auntie’s funeral

Carol, her hair perfect as always

in her good sweater with the sequins,

or Jessie queenly in her blue peignoir set

bought especially for the occasion

or after a birth, new life in the world

or a Rosemary Clooney song playing on the radio

or handing us kids his lunchbox after work,

watching us eat what he had saved—

the end of a candy bar, two or three grapes,

part of a scrambled egg and ketchup sandwich

what I have learned at seventy is this,

that the time and place are not as important

as what he said, the words my father spoke

that had become a prayer without ceasing

the most important word to know is migwech

when you get up in the morning

you should thank God for making you an Indian