  IN WINTER
SNOWMy mother's land is white with snow. The sandwash and the waterhole, the dry grass patches and the cornfield hide away under the white blanket, under the snow blanket that covers the land. The air is filled with falling snow, thick snow, soft snow falling, falling. and the red rock canyons hide their faces in snow clouds. The wind cries. It piles the snow in drift banks against the poles of the sheep corral. It pushes against the door of my mother's hogan, and it cries. The wind cries out there in the snow and the cold. My mother's hogan is cold. Snow blows down the smoke hole. Water drops on the fire. The wet wood smokes and keeps its flames to itself. The sun has not shown his face to tell us what time of day it is. I do not like to ask my mother, "Is it noon now?" or "Is it almost night?" because she might think I wanted it to be time to eat. She might think I wanted food. THERE IS NO FOODThere is no food. There is no flour nor cornmeal to make into bread. There is no coffee that my mother could boil for us to drink. There is no food. The corn my father planted in his field is gone. We ate it. The corn pile in the storehouse was not high enough to last for long. It is gone. Now all of it is gone. There is no food. There is food at the Trading Post in sacks and in boxes, in bins and in cans on the shelf. There is food at the Trading Post, but the Trading Post is far away and snowdrifts and snow clouds are heavy between. There is food at the Trading Post but my father has nothing left of the hard, round money that he must give to the Trader for the food. There is no food here in my mother's hogan. When it is time to eat, we talk of other things, bu
"line"> I take the dry wood box. My father takes the saddle from his horse. We go into the hogan with our bundles in our arms. My mother breaks the box with her foot. She breaks the pieces across her knee. She feeds them to the fire. The dry wood box makes the fire flame dance in the hogan fire. My mother puts meat to cook. She mixes flour and water, a little ball of lard, a little pinch of salt in our round tin bowl. She takes some out and pats it flat, and pats it round, and pats it thin, and throws it in a kettle full of boiling fat. This hunger pain inside me is bigger now than I am. It is the smell of cooking food that makes it grow, I think. Soon the fried bread in the hot fat swells big and brown. Soon the meat in the stew pot makes bubbling noises. Coffee boils smelling strong and good. The hunger pain is now so big I cannot understand Why I do not see it. SUPPERNow we are eating the good food. We eat slowly. We eat a long time. The hunger pain is gone. It went somewhere, but I do not know when, it left so quickly. My father tells us that the wife of Tall-Man's brother suffers from something. She is sick. My father tells us that tomorrow there will be a Sing for this woman who has sickness. We will go, he says, if the sun shines tomorrow. We will go to the hogan of the wife of Tall-Man's brother. SLEEPNow that I am warm and have no pain and feel well fed with my mother's good cooking, I feel sleepy and glad. Lying on my blanket bed on the floor of the hogan, I say to myself over and over, "If the sun shines tomorrow we will go to the Sing." MORNING SUNLast night went quickly with sleeping. It is tomorrow now. I open my eyes to a beautiful world of sun and snow. Everywhere I look the snow shines as if someone had sprinkled it with broken bits of stars. My father says, "snow is good for the land. When the sun melts it the thirsty sand drinks in the snow water." Grass patches show again. They look fresh and clean. The goats hurry about eating all they can. Even the sheep move more quickly, eating. GOING TO THE SINGMy father goes for dry wood. He has to go to the foothills to get it. My mother cooks bread and meat. I sit by the door in the sunshine and think about the Sing. My grandmother comes to my mother's hogan. She will look after the sheep while we are gone to the Sing. The sun shines. The sun shines. Soon we will go to the Sing, the Sing. After awhile my father comes back with the wagon. He piles the wood near the hogan. He says he is ready to go to the Sing and we are ready, too. Not long after the sun has finished with the day we will get there. We will get to the hogan of the wife of Tall-Man's brother. We will be at the Sing, the Sing, the Sing. The ruts in the road are deep and frozen. The wheels of the wagon have a song of their own. I sit in the back of the wagon in a nest made of blankets. |
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