That Is Why I Love You, You Lonely Old Indian Woman

Going through some of my essays from the past, I found the one below that I once wrote about Char. I took the original subtitle of my book from this prose-poem. I called the book Turtle Heart: The Story of a Lonely Old Indian Woman and a Shy Little Mennonite Girl. Eventually I changed the subtitle to The Story of a Lonely Old Ojibwe Woman and a Shy Little Mennonite Girl because I thought “Ojibwe” was more politically correct. Even though Char always called herself Indian.

Now I am thinking of changing the subtitle again to something shorter. Like Turtle Heart: An Old Ojibwe Woman and a Shy Mennonite Girl. Or maybe just Turtle Heart without a subtitle. Or maybe something else.

If you have an opinion, let me know it in the comments below.

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Your Hair Is Black as Crows’ Wing

Your hair is black as crows’ wing, crows’ wing streaked with white like a crow caught in snow. Cut short as a man’s except for a thin trail that straggles down your back. Ruffled and rumpled, you say you share a hairstyle with Nibba, your whiskery miniature schnauzer.

That is why I love you, you lonely old Indian woman, this shy little Mennonite girl.

Your body is tiny, as breakable as a China doll. Your hands are small but firm, your fingers mottled a purplish-blue with long white nails at the ends. When we walk you take my arm, swaying a little sometimes. You use your hands to lift your legs one by one into the car. I put your bag on the back seat and close the door behind you.

That is why I love you, you lonely old Indian woman, this shy little Mennonite girl.

Your face is flat, meshed with wrinkles like a crumpled paper bag; your chin small and pointed; your eyes as deep as two wells in a midnight woods. When you are disappointed, two wooden covers snap across your eyes, your mouth becomes a tight line turned down at the corners, and your whole face droops. When you smile, the sun rises, white teeth flash behind thin purple lips, and all your wrinkles turn up.

That is why I love you, you lonely old Indian woman, this shy little Mennonite girl.

You have pictures in your photo album of when you were young—sepia colored photos on stiff yellowed paper. They come in odd shapes and sizes—perfect squares or rough-edged rectangles. A beaming four-year-old with new dress and shoes—a six-year-old with missing teeth, wispy-haired and joyful—deep-eyed, dark-curled at your first communion—a twelve-year-old with long, thick braids. I study the twelve-year-old longest—recognize the wide eyebrows over eyes that are cautious and a little slanted, the down-turned mouth, the tiny mole on the left cheek.

You told me once that you had to do things as a girl that no young girl should be expected to do, working like a man on your grandfather’s farm. At thirteen and fourteen, you were tough and swinging, ready to fight whoever offered. At sixteen, you milked and fed the cows alone, came in from the barn and made breakfast for your aging grandparents, got yourself ready and hiked off to school—the nunny-bunny school where jeans weren’t an option and no swearing allowed.

That is why I love you, you lonely old Indian woman, this shy little Mennonite girl.

Jeans are your uniform now, like they have been throughout your life, jeans and size six tennis shoes. No make-up or strings of painted pearls around your neck. No tiny knitted sweaters or hand-made quilts, no puttering in the kitchen or romance novels. You read Zane Grey, watch Animal Planet, and yell at your dog.

That is why I love you, you lonely old Indian woman, this shy little Mennonite girl.

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Feature photo by Nick Fewings on Unsplash