And so, Grandfather, Ayiki stayed long after they had gone. He blinked at me when the sunlight broke through and the blankets were gone from Nokomis. He cleansed and stayed to cleanse again and no one noticed. Why have they forgotten, Grandfather? They talk about saving Mother Earth and they do not know her very children. Ayiki tells me of a time when man could speak Ayiki words and in those days the world could clean itself. Tell me Grandfather, how can I remind them?
Apistay Moosa gave life, Grandfather. She bore her small one in the early morning and left the new one to find its legs while she filled her belly to fill her teats. In the moments of her goneness, there was the fear and the tears and the humaness of imagining that no one would return.
How can I remind them, Grandfather, that from birth the four-legged teach their young abandonment so that they can know the voices of all beingness? I ask them to listen hard, but they cannot hear me.
I can bearly hear myself.
Do not forget us, Grandfather.
Keechay Manitiou, Kataa petchea kea. Kanee wapameconan kape mate sey ya.
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