The Knife Wearer

This morning we found ourselves skinning a deer,

cutting meat, hanging some to dry and packaging

some for the freezer. It was the dogs late last night

that set off a howling, the unexpected smell of fresh

blood floating down the block, then a familiar car

horn honking in the driveway. My nephew and his

friends were hunting and brought us a deer. Mother

always said, “Cut up the meat right away, don’t let

it sit.” I look at a front quarter, a hole filled with

coagulated blood. Grandma says not to eat the part

next to the wound, “Cut it out; offer it to the earth for

healing, a sacrifice to remember the hungering spirits.”

Auntie says to save the muscle along the back strap,

“It makes good thread.” I carefully learned the exact

place to cut the joints so the bones separate easily.

Mother said that is important—“It means you are a

thoughtful person.” Auntie is at the door waiting for

a roast. “An elder takes the first piece,” she reminded.

Mom tells me to save the hooves for her. She wants

to make a bone game for the new grandchild, wants

him to be patient and skillful. I boil the hoofs with

sage, find the little toe-bones for her. My hands begin

to ache from the work, I soak them in warm water

and start again. I admire the placement of tendons

on the deer shoulders, no joints, just the crisscrossing

of muscle. Grandma says, “That’s why your dad called

them jumpers, they bounce off the strength of their

flexing muscles.” Late at night Mom helps me stake

out the hide. My back hurts; my feet feel like I’ve

been walking on rocks all day. I want to complain,

but Mom catches the look in my eyes. She says to me,

“When you get dressed for the dance this weekend,

you will proudly wear your beautiful beaded dress,

your beaded leggings and moccasins, and last, but not

least, you will put on your beaded belt, and attached

you will wear your sharp knife and quilled knife sheath

because of what you have done this day.”