It is told and retold
of how Kohkum killed a bear with a river rock
an arm like Ronnie Lancaster (that old Saskatchewan
Roughrider)
she throws with precision
at Muskwa’s third eye
it is like a baby’s soft spot
That bear falls hard
as coyotes watch from the bush
then spread the word quickly
Kohkum is never stalked again while out picking berries
It is a story I tell Nichanis
my daughter
she wants to hear it again tonight
repetition
is how my five year old learns
For her
the story is as much of a medicine as the Vicks I rub on her
throat tonight
My daughter wears the story like a protective shield
honours it like a jingle dress
Stories
ingested like a comfort food that turn into proud memory
Our stories flow through our strong bloodline
like a meandering river
into an ocean of courage
When she turns ten – Nichanis asks me
“Am I pretty, Nikawiy?”
I love it when she calls me her mama using Kohkum’s language
our language
it has spirit and so does she
I tell her
“No. You are not pretty
You are beautiful
in every possible way.”
I tell her she makes me proud
and say
she reminds me of Kohkum
They have the same eyes and share the same smile
strength
genetic memory
Then
Nichanis asks me to retell to her again
the story
about the day
Kohkum killed a bear
(*Cree: grandmother, bear, daughter)
Poem originally published by carte blanche magazine
