Ancestors by Isabella Mondragon of the Institute of American Indian Arts

I was about 10 years old the first time I saw it, but it wasn’t the last. I remember it like it was yesterday. I don’t know why the first time sticks out more than the others, it just does. I saw it from Grandma’s porch, it was around summertime.

Back in those days you either stayed outside or inside, ain’t no going in and out. Grandma lived out in the country, around Preston, Oklahoma, to be specific. It was evening time, golden hours. While stopping to take a break from running around Grandma’s, I felt the need to look out into the wood line just across the road out front. A few seconds went by and that is when it emerged from the forest. It was small like me but with dark fur all over—and lanky, lankier than I was. I wasn’t as scared as I was surprised. Once I came out of the dazed state I was in, I decided to kick a nearby soccer ball directly at it. The ball went above the creature’s head, and it went to retrieve it. The creature didn’t return and afterwards I was overcome with a sense of relief, not because it was gone, but because it was as if everything was going to be alright.

I felt as if I had just made a new friend, but I also felt like he was always there. My favorite uncle had just passed a few days before I encountered this creature, and we were having his service at Grandma’s. His death was the first one that weighed heavy on my little spirit, although many more would come. Today, I’m not sure if “death” is the right word.

I saw the being every so often throughout my life. Grandma passed on and I came to own the house and the surrounding acreage. I was middle aged when I divorced. She took the kids and I never felt more alone. Up until then I guess I neglected areas of my life and was a “my way or the highway” kind of man. One evening, I decided to step outside and have a smoke. There he was, my old friend. He seemed to have pissed off Father Time as much as I had. The being now stood well over seven feet tall, its hair had a grey tint matching mine. He seemed to hit life pretty hard, and life was hitting him back. Once again, I felt a sense that everything would be alright. It was as if I knew my burdens only existed for a season then fell with the leaves. He slowly disappeared into the forest.

Time passes and it seems that even as my body gets old my knowledge and awareness of things continue to grow like the roots of trees. Even though my leaves continue to fall, my understanding grows deeper.

Even now, I stand on Grandma’s porch feeling like the same little boy I once was. We just finished my funeral services. It feels good seeing my family all together, like the old days. I’m looking out into the woods and there he is, my old friend whose been with me throughout. He stretches an arm out beckoning me to go that way. I go. He turns and walks into the shaded green. As I get closer to the forest, I feel the sun’s warmth intensify. I hear every single cicada singing on the leaves of surrounding trees. The power of all the songs we have ever sung, all the ceremonies we ever held, all the prayers we have ever sent envelopes my being entirely. I feel the strength of our grandmothers and grandfathers with every smile, hug, and handshake given. I am nothing but everything. I am not only here but also a part of everything we believe is next. I go on . . .

Marcus Kitchkommie is a student at College of the Muscogee Nation.