At one time, many moons ago, history wasn't always
shrouded like every sudden widow. The only carrier left
of the fragile gift of our ancestral memory traded hers for the ride alcohol provided. All that's left of my heritage are diced memories my mother managed to make into a salad, tossed in time through the passage of her life.

Great Grandfather was a frontiersman upon the bounty that is God's Louisiana earth. Through the swampy backwoods, his name carried the word "rain". After a marriage and 5 children,
he lived to see many sunsets before his passing in his '90's.

For me the word Cherokee is a peaceful sound. It also reminds me of a people who have never given up. With each generation,
my family's Indian blood runs thinner to find myself near the
end of it's line. The bloodline of a hidden heritage, full
of mysterious grace and quiet dignity.

Knowing the door is there, the key remains hidden. But now
it has been found, in a library devoted to the Native American past. In it were books about the me I never knew.
Devine knowing bust from the yellowed pages,
never to be confined again.