Running Barefoot

by Amy Harmon

my dad’s antidote to depression; he worked endlessly and let alcohol blur the cracks in between.

There were times, especially the year after my mom’s death, when the grief in our house felt like putting a heavy quilt over your head and trying to breathe.

Because of this, the Holy Wind Spirit, níłch’i, sits at the ears of the Diné, or the people, and whispers instructions—tells them right from wrong. People who constantly ignore the níłch’i are abandoned. The ni’ch’i will not remain with them.”

and ‘hózhǫ́’ was restored on our hard green seat on the rickety yellow school bus.

There is a silent music in joy,

The months after Kasey’s death were like a strange play where I became the leading lady with a helpless supporting cast and where the props of daily life kept me functioning in a stilted parody of existence.

It smelled like safety and soap and my broken dreams.

but sometimes a little guilt was a good distraction from sorrow.