So one thing that I did and, as I
said, trying to avoid having too many that
were my own story in this collection,
I have a few pieces that are stories
that I overheard from friends.
Overheard certain things, and they worked themselves
into pieces that I decided to work out.
And one of these is the piece called "The Way to Leave
Your Illness."
And the setting is here on campus.
So the library is our library.
But the phrase, "the way to leave your illness,"
is something that my colleague, Mary Willy, said one day.
But she had been sick--
not sick-sick, but she had this cold and cough,
and you know how they kind of just drag on forever
and won't clear up.
And she was getting really frustrated with it.
And so she told us-- oh, we were going to have class,
and she comes walking in.
And she said, I just went all the way down
to the other end of campus, to the library,
and I just got back from there.
And she said she walked over there
to try and leave her congestion and things over
there so that it would clear up from her.
And she said that's what they were told when you were sick,
that you could take it over there
and leave it and walk away.
And anyway, so this was inspired by her little story
about her grandmother.
"The Way to Leave Your Illness."
"If you have an illness that won't go away, take a journey.
When you get there, leave it.
Place it on a rock.
Throw it into moving water.
Bury it.
Throw it into the wind.
Let it go.
Leave it there for others.
She had been sick for many days.
In her frustration, she remembered what
her grandmother used to say.
Take it far away and leave it there.
So she walked to the other end of campus towards the library.
In her mind, she left the discomfort, ache, pain there.
She walked back comforted, knowing she
didn't bring it back with her.
Her illness is now hidden in the stacks.
Perhaps it is temporarily in periodicals,
or archived in special collections,
or perhaps in fiction and no longer real."
[LAUGHTER]
So she did start to feel better after that, so I can vouch for.
Also, this one is about another woman, a Navajo
woman, just a young girl.
And this is from a memory from a long time
ago when my husband and I were just young parents
and we would help raise money for our daughter's
Indian School programs in elementary school.
And our big fundraiser was Tucson Meet Yourself, downtown.
And we'd be there really early with our fire going
to make fry bread and so forth.
So one morning we were there just testing everything.
And we'd made some bread to see how hot the oil was.
And this young girl comes by.
And so this is her story.
And it's called "Just Like Home."
"The young woman buys a piece of fresh fried bread
from the Indian Parent Association booth.
Oh, just like home, she says.
Do you have any salt?
I poured a small amount in her palm.
She sprinkles it on her bread.
She takes a bite.
Mmm, just like home.
She seems unaware she has her eyes
closed as she eats and talks.
The delicate bite of freshly cooked bread takes her back.
She stands on the street in downtown Tucson
and thinks of women so familiar to her,
her mother, her sisters cooking outside.
In the distance, the sound of someone
chopping wood, a barking dog.
Piñon smoke is so real for her right now.
Her hair might smell of it if she moved
and the breeze caught her just right."