Winter Counts

by David Heska Wanbli Weiden

I wondered what it was like to live without that weight on your shoulders, the weight of the murdered ancestors, the stolen land, the abused children, the burden every Native person carries.

What I’d discovered was that sadness is like an abandoned car left out in a field for good—it changes a little over the years, but doesn’t ever disappear. You may forget about it for a while, but it’s still there, rusting away, until you notice it again.

observed that Marie had code-switched, referring to our people as Sioux so as not to confuse the women. The French word sioux meant “little snakes,” and was rarely used by Lakota people.

Winter counts. This was the winter of my sorrow, one I had tried to elude but which had come for me with a terrible cruelty.