He had missed the glare from the red rocks, the harshness of the heat, John Pollock realized with surprise. He stood, feet slightly apart, feeling the stone and sand beneath him, and gazed at the sky and rugged mesas. Words came back to him, long-buried Diné words praising Creator and creation. He breathed in the hot dry air. It was good to be home.
He began walking. Somewhere there would be cousins. Perhaps aunts and uncles. He had the money he’d earned in the mines as well as the gold Thomas Pollock had pressed into his hand as he said, “You take care now,” on that final morning. Perhaps he would buy sheep and drive them to pasture as he remembered his grandfather doing before the Long Walk. His mind sheered off from remembering the Walk itself, that dark and hungry time.
“Somewhere there will be cousins,” John told himself.
Copyright © 2015 Loretta Miles Tollefson