by waaseyaa'sin christine sy
how i feel about the rustling sound and warmth of the big, blustery, winds moving through the full black locust trees in the garden across the street
the sight of their full, dark silhouettes swaying and twirling against the dark nightblue sky
fading smell of their dying blossoms
memories of their white petals falling like snow in the shifty light of grey skies and sunbeams, how my beloved friend and i stood there today in the driveway amongst them looking up at all their splendor and pretty and how he raised his hands and arms, smiling just wide smiling, “This is beautiful!” and how we hugged baamaapii because there is no such thing as good-bye, only see you again and how he is a good hugger
and tonight is different than last because zhawanong anangoonhs, Jupiter, who was hanging out to the left of Nokomis-is twinkling away there to her right and there they both are in the dying blossoms and swirling trees, warm blustery winds
when the wind dies down the crickets and yes,
according to Leonard Bloomfield’s and John D. Nichols translations of Biidaasige’s (Angeline Williams) stories, maamakaadendang refers to being filled with wonder. aapidjii nendam, i have learned elsewhere refers to being grateful.
maamakaadendang amiinawaa aapidjii nendam.