"Whereas."
I did not desire in childhood to be a part of this,
but desired most of all to be a part--
a piece, combined with others to make up a whole--
some but not all of something.
In Lakota it's hanké, a piece or part of anything.
Like the creek trickling behind my Auntie's house, where Uncle
built her a bridge to cross from bank to bank,
not far from a grassy clearing with three teepees--
a place to gather.
She holds three-day workshops on traditional arts.
Young people from Kyle and Potato Creek
arrive one-by-one, eager to participate.
"They have the option, my Auntie says,
"to sleep at home and return in the morning."
But by and large, they'll stay and camp, even
during South Dakota winters--
the comfort of being together.
I think of plains, winds, snow drifts, ice, and limbs--
the exposure.
And when I slide my arms into a wool coat
and put my hand to the doorknob, ready to brave
the sub-zero dark, someone says, "Be careful out there.
Always consider the snow your friend.
Think badly of it, snow will burn you."
I walk out remembering that for millennia, we
have called ourselves Lakota, meaning friend or ally,
this relationship to the other--
some but not all.
Still, our piece to everything.