Tears glistened in Olivia’s eyes, though her gaze remained fixed on the unseen horizon. Perhaps she, too, envisioned Lee’s ascent, his spirit finding freedom beyond the boundaries of this mortal world. In that shared silence, there was a beauty—a wordless understanding that transcended speech.
Marcellious, who had known only the sharp sting of loss until now, drew a shuddering breath. His hand found mine, trembling yet firm, and we formed a circle of solidarity around Lee. United in our hope for his peaceful passage, we became anchors for one another.
The world outside the shed continued its indifferent spin, but within these walls, time stood still, reverent and unmoving, honoring the soul prepared to take flight from earthly bonds to the boundless skies.
The words slipped from my lips like a gentle stream. “In the land of the ancestors, forevermore.”
As Malik quietly led the children home, Olivia and Emily settled on either side of Lee’s body, their grief etched into their faces. They were statues of sorrow, unmoving save for the occasional tremble of a suppressed sob or the quiet trail of a tear they could not wipe away in time. Like the prayer itself, their stillness was a testament to love—a love that transcended the finality of death.
Marcellious had sunk to his knees beside me, his body shuddering with sobs that reverberated off the wooden walls of the shed. I placed a hand on his shoulder, offering what little comfort could be found in the warmth of human touch—a fragile connection in the vast emptiness of grief.
“Grandfather Great Spirit,” I began, my voice steadying as I recited the ancient prayer, “look upon your children with children in their arms, that they may face the winds and walk the good road to the day of quiet.”
We passed Lee’s worn, leather-bound book of quotes between us, reading its cherished words as though each was a sacred offering. I turned to a page marked with Lee’s hand, the underlined text of journeys through nature and the lessons it imparted. These were words he had lived by; now, they became the words we used to guide him forward.
As the hours stretched, the shed’s light grew dim, shadows lengthening across Lee’s carvings and dreamcatchers. They seemed to stand vigil with us, silent sentinels honoring the man who had given them form.
“May you find peace in the Great Spirit’s arms,” I whispered into the gathering dusk, the weight of the book grounding me to this moment even as Lee’s spirit journeyed to a place beyond our reach.
“Where there is no pain, no fear, no harm,” Olivia murmured, her hand seeking mine. She squeezed it with a quiet strength—born not from defiance but love and shared resilience.
“May your journey be swift and your spirit soar,” Marcellious said, his voice cracking yet imbued with a fragile acceptance that began to thread through his grief.
“In the land of the ancestors, forevermore.” We repeated the words together, their rhythm becoming a mantra, binding us in unity. We continued reciting the poems, our voices steady and reverent, until those who would help us carry Lee to his final resting place arrived.
The stillness settled over us like a gentle fog, and I felt the soft cadence of Olivia’s breathing begin to align with mine. Our hearts beat in quiet harmony as we sat adrift on the sea of sorrow, suspended between the world of the living and the echoes of the spirit realm.
When dawn brushed the horizon with its golden hues, Talia arrived. She was flanked by two others whose faces bore the wear of a night spent in solemn vigil. Two teenage girls emerged from their vehicle, their youthful expressions tempered by grief. They moved with purpose, their footsteps respectful upon the earth that cradled generations of memory.
One of the girls spoke first, her voice steady yet gentle. “Where are the children? We’re here to watch them while you attend the burial proceedings.”
The other girl offered a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry. We’re great with kids. We’ve got more cousins than we can count.”
“Thank you,” Olivia said, her voice thick with emotion, her eyes swollen and red from hours of crying. “Thank you so much.”
I guided them to Jack’s house, where they could keep the children safe and comforted. Meanwhile, Talia, Olivia, and I turned toward the shed, joined by the other woman—Maya. I had only just learned her name, spoken in a hushed breath amid the chaos. The door creaked open, a solemn whisper in anticipation of what was to come.
Talia, Maya, and Olivia began the sacred rituals in the soft morning light. They washed Lee with water drawn fresh from the brook that whispered gently past the yard, its song a quiet lullaby for the departed. Each movement was deliberate, filled with care and devotion, as they prepared him for his journey.
They dressed Lee in traditional Sioux clothing, the intricate patterns woven into the fabric speaking of his heritage, his identity, and the stories that had shaped him. Every fold, every stitch seemed to hum with the echoes of a life lived with purpose. Carefully, they placed Lee’s most treasured belongings by his side. His prayer pipe, its surface worn smooth from years of use, rested against him—a companion for his voyage into the afterlife. It was a poignant reminder of his connection to the spiritual and the eternal.
As the smudging ceremony began, the air grew thick with the earthy scent of burning sage. Spirals of smoke rose, weaving toward the rafters, carrying prayers in the Lakota tongue to the heavens. The rhythmic cadence of drums joined the sacred song; each beat resonated like the earth’s heartbeat.
My chest tightened with emotion, my soul aching at the moment’s beauty. There was a quiet, profound love in how Talia and her companions honored Lee, each gesture a testament to his place among us and passage to the next realm.
“Roman,” Marcellious murmured beside me, his voice heavy with grief. His eyes glistened as he looked toward me, seeking strength amidst the overwhelming sorrow.
I clasped his shoulder, offering what little comfort I could as the women wrapped Lee’s body with organic cloth, cocooning him in the fabric of the natural world.
“Come,” Talia said softly, her voice steady and reverent. She beckoned us back to the circle where others had gathered to pay homage to Lee. “We must prepare for the journey.”
I rejoined the vigil with a heart weighed down yet full of quiet wonder.
Lee’s body, swathed in the soft fabric, was carefully placed in the back of his battered old truck. The scent of sage still lingered, a fragrant reminder of the prayers whispered in the shed. The silence enveloping us was heavy, broken only by the occasional wail of mourning carried on the breeze.
“I can drive,” Olivia offered, her tone calm, though I could see the turmoil churning behind her eyes. “I’ve done it plenty in this century.”
“No way,” I replied, my gaze set firmly on the horizon where the Black Hills loomed, waiting for us. “I’m driving.”
