Sunday morning we all are to meet
at the top of Mount Evans. Just family
this time. It is many miles to the
summit with many dizzying turns and switchbacks. Many cyclists pass us like machines; inhuman,
indomitably peddling to the top. We get
above the tree line and mountain goats and their small goatees are nibbling the
sparse foliage the mountain offers. The family
gathers and moves out of the summit lot to an overlook on passes strewn with
snow fields. We are led by a woman of
Nepalese decent and she and another white man with a Hindi accent lead a
ceremony in the Lakota language of the Sioux.
Kathy’s ashes were brought in by Natalie. They are in a box that reminds me of a
mailbox that is contained in a mauve, cloth bag. Her
presence is felt, according to our spirit guide, who had prefaced the ceremony
with a plea for openness. We could take
from it what we wanted and were not urged to believe one way or the other. We sit in a circle and a dish of burning sage
is passed which we all invite to our nose with our hand. Some berries and bits of Bison jerky are
dropped in the box for Kathy and then passed to each of us. High-pitched song rings out and the drum is
lightly pounded. We are silent. We think of Kathy and I hear only the
sniffling of people as they prepare to cry.
It dissipates, gently into a mountain wind that teases at the back of
our bowed heads. The circle is navigated
again for sound and words are said by most members of the family. Handshakes and hugs are then exchanged as one
end of the circle slowly coils to the end and begins again…like life
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