We, My Children and I**

We are like war ravaged soldiers

And I am awake in the bare morning light

With this pain in my gut -

A mother bear in the woods, mad with ache,

wondering, still, where my cubs have gone.

I am raw with the loss of them,

I ache with the bare and spare feelings

Of a heart made hollow with the lessening sounds

Of laughter outside my door.

Because we, my children and I, when unhindered,

Existed in a no-time.

Pre, and post, colonial contact

We, my children and I**

Could slip into a quick stream of time

Where we spoke to animals

And sung with star spirits

Where we ran, wild 

Where dryads were not greek, 

but human dream-stuff imbued into the wonder that is this life -

Alive in the forest, lush and still.

For it was not they that broke me.

It was the knowing clawing need to meet White Societies expectations

The do and do and give and give and do not stop and do not stop…

They who could not understand the joy and wild beauty

Our quiet life, that we did not boast about,

but simply existed within.

They could not see us in themselves.

To imagine,

Our beauty.

It was the perceptions of white men and women ,

And the crumbing of my ability to wake in the morning, 

And find the motivation to get out of bed.

And then the deadlines started passing.

And my head started hurting.

And how could I get up to make pancakes when all I wanted to do was

Stay in bed and cry over the loss of you, Grandma?

When all I needed was a few more minutes to remember you.

How could I answer those phone calls 

And those emails

And that text message

And those chapter question 

When I wasn’t going to get to call you at the end

And chat about whether or not you were going to 

Get your hair curled

By Annetta

I miss you.

And I miss myself.

But I miss my children more.

And for all that I miss you,

For all that I wouldn’t ever go back and do it differently

I lost them in this grieving process.

And it’s no easy road back.

From the here and now,

To that space and time that I was once weaving,

Where we, my children and I**, still are

when unhindered

Existing in a no-time

Pre, and post, colonial

(Who cares)

We, my children and I**

Who slip into a quick stream of time

Who speak to the animals

And sing to star spirits

And run with the wild things

Who live in a world where dryads are not greek, 

but human dream-stuff imbued into this life.

And you, settler allies, best we wary, of your own fear-filled narratives.

For as one who has survived the wilderness I tell you,

It is not fear that will get you out alive.

** Lee Maracle