Where the Lost Wander

by Amy Harmon

“It is. It is the suffering of love. Every parent feels it. It is the suffering of being unable to shield or save. It is not love if it doesn’t hurt.”

Love doesn't have to hurt.

“The pain. It’s worth it. The more you love, the more it hurts. But it’s worth it. It’s the only thing that is.”

Mr. Caldwell doesn’t like the Mormons, though I don’t think he’s ever met one and probably wouldn’t know if he had. Mr. Caldwell doesn’t like anyone he doesn’t understand, which to my way of thinking includes women, Indians, children, Mormons, Catholics, Irishmen, Mexicans, Scandinavians, and anyone who is different from him, which—again—includes most people. The

I’m convinced everyone is a little vile, if they are honest about it. Vile and scared and human.

“You’re scowling, Naomi.” “It’s what I’m best at. Scowling and drawing. My two greatest gifts.”

Hating never fixed anything. It seems simple, but most things are. We just complicate them. We spend our lives complicating what we would do better to accept. Because in acceptance, we put our energies into transcendence.” “Transcendence?”

John knows what kind of world we live in. Women and men marry. It is survival. It is life. I have no doubt Warren will marry again. Adam Hines too. It is simply the way of things.

It is impossible to explain to someone who is surrounded by their own language and people just how lonely it is to not understand and to not be understood.

Why would I want to stare at my own reflection in my children if I could look at John instead?

hate them. I hate Indians,” Webb cries, his voice muffled by my shoulder. “Do you hate me?” I ask quietly. “I’m an Indian.” “No. I love you.” “And I love you too. There’s good and bad in all kinds of people. Indians and emigrants alike. Do you remember when Mr. Caldwell set my animals loose?” “Yeah. I hate Mr. Caldwell too,” Webb sobs. “Do you remember my friend Hanabi? And Charlie? They helped us. Without Charlie . . . Wyatt and I wouldn’t have made it back to you and the others,” I remind him. “So you be real careful about who you hate.” Webb

“Someday we will all look like you,” Washakie says to me one day, almost a week since we left the Tobitapa. He has been morose and has not spoken to me all morning, though he insists I ride at his side. His sudden comment startles me. “What do I look like?” I ask, not understanding his meaning. “Like an Indian dressed as a white man.” After a moment he continues. “The blood of the Indian and the blood of the white people will flow together. One people. I have seen it.” He does not sound happy about it. He sounds resigned, and I don’t know what to say. I tell him about the turtle, about living on both the land and the water, like Naomi told me to do. He smiles, but he shakes his head. “We will have to become entirely new creatures. Then we will all be lost people . . . like my mother.”

“You were fighting for your brother. You were fighting for Wolfe. For your life. It would have been easier to scratch and kick and bite. Believe me, I know. I spent the first fifteen years of my life fighting everything and everyone. But . . . endurance . . . is a whole different kind of battle. It’s a hell of a lot harder. Don’t ever say you didn’t fight, because that’s never been true. Not one day of your whole life. You fought, Naomi. You’re still fighting.”

Are you angry with the bird because he can fly, or angry with the horse for her beauty, or angry with the bear because he has fearsome teeth and claws? Because he’s bigger than you are? Stronger too? Destroying all the things you hate won’t change any of that. You still won’t be a bear or a bird or a horse. Hating men won’t make you a man. Hating your womb or your breasts or your own weakness won’t make those things go away. Hating never fixed anything. It’s