Bone Deep

My fingers fell into the grooves of the carving and I began to trace the memories of my Father's life. He had etched the adventures he shared with his best friend into the bone on the handle so that when they grew old, they would know and feel and see and remember.

I know it was to be a gift but I cannot bring myself to turn it loose. I keep it folded inside one of Father's unwashed shirts. His scent still clings to it, still reminds me of him. I know that from the moment our lungs seize hold of their first breath we owe one death as the price for living. Knowing does not ease the pain. A warrior among the Tribe could not ask for more than to die in battle side by side with his brothers. There is always the song of triumph to carry them on the winds to the sky. There were only two that returned from that hunt and neither of them sung the tale of blood and honor. They are both silent. This is what disturbs me. It is unfinished like the carvings on the dagger.

Last night I heard Grandmother. She spoke to grandfather although he has been gone from us as long as I have drawn breath. She is a strong woman but in those few moments, I heard her soul fracture when she thought no one could hear. She wanted to know what she had done wrong that she could not meet him before her sons. Father was my world. He was Mother's breath and Grandmother's heart. Skies forgive me, it made me angry. Angry with Father for leaving us, angry with Fonce, angry with the sky. The ire just could not burn hot enough to fill the ache that goes bone deep. What will we do without him?