wildscape. literary journal

When Stories Fell Silent
by Anangookwe Wolf

Part I. 

Profound tales of Nanaboozhoo echoed in the dense woods, where snow thickly blanketed tawny leaves and coniferous. Despite the insulated boreal, you could still hear the bellows of a train one town over. This train's horn shattered the crisp, arid air. Its roar vibrated the thin, white trailer walls where community members gathered. 

It was solstice and we were thoroughly stripped out of our down feather coats and mits. Pendleton, fraying quilts, and flannel blankets rested on the back of the foldout chairs, assuring us that extra insulation was nearby as we keenly listened to the orator narrate in Ojibwemowin. I cautiously leaned over my soggy, orange-greased, paper plate to take a bite out of my cousin’s “authentic” NDN taco that was seasoned with Great Value Original Taco Seasoning–the low-sodium version–as the orator paused to quench their thirst. 

Winter stories kept our homes and spirits warm. Winter stories can only be told when snow is on the ground. 


Part II. 

Solstice is here and fog cloaks twilight. Light rain has been forecasted through Christmas Day and the grass, eerily bright green, peaks through littered, amber leaves. A light dusting of snow is scattered about the scenery. It smells like spring. 

I remain steadfast as I walk from my mother’s trailer to my aunts’, whispering to the trees to take back their budding green and to gichi-manidoo, pleading for winter. A fierce winter reminiscent of 20 years ago when my downy pillowed body broke a sweat maneuvering through 4 feet of snow. A fierce winter when I inevitably released my clammy body into the powder. My hot breath melted the snow and its steam coated my cheeks in dew. They soon turned a bright, dry red. 

I pleaded for a fierce winter reminiscent of when my older brother and I constructed forts of strawbale under my auntie’s porch as we watched the snow fall from the dreary, grey sky. We gleefully screamed as we played in our shoddy architectural masterpiece. It took years to recoup the shocking neon toys that were lost amongst the straw, plastic litter, and dirt. Later that evening, during that fierce winter 20 years ago, my mother frustratedly spent hours separating my knotted curls from dry stalks. I smelled of a hot barn and cried as she tugged my hair with her brush.
.
Solstice is here. A warm rain has begun to fall from the sky, dissipating the light dusting of snow.

Lilac buds burgeon 
Amidst winter solstice daze
Stories fell silent

about the author // Anangookwe Wolf