Niizhwaasimidana by Linda LeGarde Grover

My father said to me
the most important word to know is migwech
when you get up in the morning
you should thank God for making you an Indian

at seventy I remember what he said
he never spoke without first giving thought

but at seventy I cannot remember
the times and places, where he said this, and when

was it driving west in his green truck at sunset
late winter giizis orange against purple clouds;
or waiting inside the entryway of the public library
for the rain to let up – back home, the roof held
where he and Uncle Ray had fixed the biggest leak,
the boards covering where Ray’s leg had dropped
through rotting wood miraculously dry

or after an auntie’s funeral
Carol, her hair perfect as always
in her good sweater with the sequins,
or Jessie queenly in her blue peignoir set
bought especially for the occasion

or after a birth, new life in the world
or a Rosemary Clooney song playing on the radio

or handing us kids his lunchbox after work,
watching us eat what he had saved –
the end of a candy bar, two or three grapes
part of a scrambled egg and ketchup sandwich

what I have learned at seventy is this,
that the time and place are not as important
as what he said, the words my father spoke
that had become a prayer without ceasing

the most important word to know is migwech
when you get up in the morning
you should thank God for making you an Indian