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“You’re letting your grief ruin you from the inside out.”
“What the hell is an eco-terrorist?” I ask, taking the newspaper and reading the rest of the article. “A word the white folks made up to make people afraid of us,” Mala responds.
“Funny, I don’t feel like a terrorist,” I say as Mala and I sit on the ground, the river behind us, the long prairie road on the hill in front of us. The black silhouettes wander up and down the road, stopping occasionally to look down at us. “Your brown face makes you one,” Mala points out.
He told me once that distance keeps his heart from breaking all the way.
“There can be beauty in destruction. Something formed one way, made new again. There needs to be more of that in the world.”
And now they steal the last thing they can, the very land where I want to rest my old body, where I was to be buried with the ones who went before. How will they find me now when my time comes? Even my death has been stolen.
