Clay and I responded with the customary “Ahow”, the Chippewa
equivalent of so-be-it and amen.
“Okay you’s guys, your cats are meowing to say your
bread is done enough. Pull it off and share so we each get to enjoy those good
thoughts ya put into it,” said Gal.
Taking turns with the jelly, we filled our bread’s
future-friendship voids and passed it around. What a beautiful way to unify our
triune relationship. As if stepping into one of those cosmic worm holes, I
found myself a spectator in the upper room in Jerusalem. The last supper,
that’s what Christians called that time of communion among Jesus and his pals. After
watching the sharing of bread and wine I zipped back to the present with
something to say.
“Hey you guys,” I said, “We’re having our own communion,
Nishnob style. We got the bread and grapes represented and all that. Pretty
cool, eh?”
Two little blobs of purple goo raced down Clay’s
white tee as he swallowed his last bite and flushed it with java. Gal, playing
deaf, feigned a mute response.
“You bein’ mean Ain’t It?” Clay stood and folded his
arms. “You know, pickin’ on my Lord again?”
“Hunh? Wait, no brother. I mean it. I think I get
it, that last supper deal. Jesus told his fishin’ buddies to make their special
shared meal a tradition to preserve their memory of him and what he was all
about. Native folk been doing those types of things for many generations. Gal
kept one of ours going tonight.”
Gal started gathering stuff up but smiled. Clay
remained skeptical.
“What would you know about such things? Asked Clay,
“being the way you are,” he added for justification.
“Give me a little credit. I’m a story guy, shoodest
priest Clay. I’ve read some of the bible. All I’m sayin’ is communion is about
deep friendship and love. Seems that way to me anyhoo. Think about this, if we
erased all the time you and I have spent sharing coffee, brewskies, fires,
fishing, and food, what would be left?”
“Half a life time I guess. I see what ya mean,” said
Clay, staring into the shimmering embers of a waning campfire.
Her arms filled, Gal motioned us to the house. We grabbed
what was left and hurried through an offensive line of mosquitoes for the door.
Inside, we put things away and decided to change locations for finishing our
evening chat. As she had all evening, Gal took the lead.
“We’re goin’ to the livin’ room. In the kitchen, I
think about things to be done. Yah, were done with coffee. It’s pushin’ 11
o’clock.”
“Staying the night Gal?” I asked, “I hope so. Oh,
I’m taking my place here on the couch and stretching out. I might just crash
while we visit. By the way Gal, thanks for that story and all the other good
stuff tonight.”
Clay and Gal took on the love seat. Worn springs,
creating a deep bowl in the cushions, forced my friends to snuggle. My eye lids
fought to stay open as I looked at the happy couple. For a dying man Clay
looked good. Yellow hued skin was gone and his eyes shiny. His Favorite Gal,
nearly a foot shorter and much younger, looked weary but pleased. Her long
thick hair, more pepper than salt, remained in a braid reaching the small of
her back.
Mumbling, I said, “I’m sorry you guys but…” and went
to sleep.
Copyright ©
2015 Migizi M. New Song. All Rights Reserved.
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