28 his eye and scarred from burn. I didn’t want to approach, to look into that casket and see the boy who I had treated badly for most of his years. I wanted to go back and force myself to see that we weren’t different, that I was not better than him, that he was just a child like me. That we were both just Native boys, walking along the trail that we were thrown upon. In the end, the entire family attends and everyone comes along, shaking our hands in a long procession. Every niece, nephew, cousin, grandma, grandpa, friend, and even teacher came along to shake our hands. Songs are sung and sermons are said before the casket is closed for good. I struggle to put the casket upon my shoulders as I walk him out into the black SUV, and then we go eat a somber feast back at the community center. Prayers for the family and the day is over, just like that. Andrew lingers inside every Native kid I see. With their wide, toothy grins, messy hair, some of themwith that faint whiff of tobacco in their sweatshirts. And every time one of those kids overdoses, I think about that Native American boy falling so far alone. I see it every time I see the drunks walking around, yelling and fighting with each other. And the messy homes with hiding spots for drugs. Or the grandmas and grandpas being so hard on their grandchildren. Not enough size, money, and love in these small towns. Yet too much tough love and too much to worry about. Now I’m leaving and I don’t know if I’ll ever go back. I just know that I’m lucky enough to have been able to make that decision. I will walk my lucky path and never forget the Native American boy, AndrewWi Enapay, and the world that we came from.
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