The smell of lard and my kokum cooking bannock washed over me. I heard kokum singing to the hornets and mosquitoes, lulling them away, as we picked berries. The sweet sound of the Morrissette reels my mushoom played throbbed in my ears, the flicker of moonbeams on his vest danced across my eyes. The faint scent of smoke from my kokum’s hearth wafted across the air. I saw my mushoom whittling a toy sword. I remembered them. I remembered my mother’s people. I remembered who I was.
Beautiful imagery of his kokum and mushoom and finding himself in the process.
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