Elegy for My Younger Sister

For Marilynn

Nihideezhí, it was a moist June afternoon when we buried you.

The Oak Springs Valley was dense with sage, cedar, and chamisa;

and gray, green, and brown shrubs cradled the small cemetery.

The sky was huge overhead.

Your son said later, "Did you see the sky? It was purple.

I knew it would rain," he said.

The dark Carrizo Mountains were so clear.

There were so many people, Sister.

Many of your friends whom we didn't know,

and your former schoolmates whom we remembered as children,

and Sister, we met many relatives for the first time.

We cried, not wanting to leave you in that serene place.

We hesitated, though our father, his parents, and their parents

are buried there. Our older sisters thought ahead to bring flowers for them.

They huddled quietly over their graves a few feet away.

Shideezhí, remember how red the sand is?

The men—your sons, our nephews, grandsons, and various in-laws—

took turns filling your grave. Their necks and arms were streaked

with dusty sweat. They kept their heads down;

their faces were damp and eyes, swollen.

We had to get it all out; we cried

and held each other. My granddaughters hovered near me

as if I might faint or fall unexpectedly.

Did you see, Sister, the way the grandchildren fed and served everyone?

They guided the grandparents and the elderly to their chairs.

Once seated, they served plates filled with mutton ribs,

potato salad, corn, thick slabs of oven bread, crispy fry bread,

and Jell-O salad. They placed the salt and pepper—that enduring couple—

before us and implored us to eat. The two delights we relished were good—

hot, strong coffee and cold, crisp diet pop.

We ate for you; we consumed your meal, Shideezhí.

We ate to honor the times you cooked for us—

those tasty dishes, scrumptious pastries combined with laughter,

silly childhood memories, and always teasing jokes.

Sister, I didn't know how we would make it;

it is still too much to think of you not being here.