I hear the songs of the Native Americans ghosts call from Sugar Loaf. Chants echo, their cries fade in and out. The tips of their feathers are as bright as the turquoise sky. Words climb to the heavens after falling from their mouths; deep, brief pauses follow when their lips part to take a breath. This is how I imagine them—heavy in ritual, every twig precious, even the rocks having purpose. I close my eyes and imagine the smoke from their fire becoming lost in my hair. I watch gray ribbons rise from the heart of their camps. They wave at me and invite me to step inside their circle. They change my name and paint my face. My hands, stained with berries, feel the single braid of hair. I am like the river that divides the two lands by the body of the Mississippi: yesterday and today. I am caught in a dream, and dream their dream. I am free from where memory ends or where it begins. And when I wake, I am alone. I spend my childhood years combing the mountain wishing at least one of the tribe members would appear. I stand in silence. I am alone. Everyone is gone.
