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My friend Jon and I were in one of our moods of being destructive little men wreaking havoc on the small town of Ontonagon.
There was a strange but familiar smell, it was a mixture of musky perfume, sage, and beef soup. I knew for sure who it was in my kitchen, and it wasn’t a burglar, it was my Grandma.
You spent your last moments where you belonged.
Resting quietly with the sleeping plants,
you returned to the land.
Their eyes scanned me up and down, not even pausing in their conversation to each other as they did so.
My goal was to encourage as many Indigenous people as possible to grow their own tobacco.
This would be the end of my traditional way of life. I would no longer hear the whispered sounds of my language, the singing, the laughter of my people, the smell of burning cedar.