Short Life Stories

Lonely Winds

Grandfather stood by the hospital bed, his sad, dark, Sioux face embossed with wrinkles, caressing Dad’s hand while he talked to his dying son. Dad lay still with the breathing tube taped to his dry mouth. I ached at every sob that escaped Grandfather as he stroked Dad’s thick, black hair. He tried several times before to help Dad break the strong addiction that tightened its grip and worsened with each failed attempt. In younger years, the other Indians called him a “half-blood” or “white man” because he was not full-blooded Dakota Sioux and the whites called him Indian. Once established in his core, the drink brought him relief from a life that never developed and families that gave up on him. My brother, Mike, stood at the foot of the bed in full-dress Army uniform, his face, a blank palette of suppressed emotion and tearless eyes.

During the short time Dad lived with our mother, Mike took the brunt of Dad’s drunken verbal abuse and he bore the emotional scars that brought distance and disdain. Once 18, Mike joined the Army and never looked back. Our two younger, half-sisters stood on the other side of Dad and talked to him in soft voices peppered with sobs while tears streamed down their sad faces. They lived on the reservation with their mother and stepfather. Dad lived with their mother longer than he did with ours and after the divorce, he moved back to the reservation to live with Grandfather.

I wanted to touch his hand but fear kept me back. He didn’t look anything like I remembered. His skin was deep yellow and thick with fluid. His once desperate eyes now held a fixed stare while he lay silent and motionless. I wondered if he knew how the next events of his life would play. I couldn’t contain the tears that poured from my eyes. The doctors said he had a strong heart but once the machines were silenced, it would not keep him alive. Alcohol stifled his last breath, as forty-two years of fear and pain burned away from his eyes leaving an empty, blank stare as his last heartbeat seemed to echo in the small, bright, white room.

Until that moment, I felt we were all connected. Dad’s life bound us together. Now, his death released us and each was alone. My pain consumed me as I reached for Mike and consolation, but his once stark face suddenly streamed with tears as he turned and ran from the room. Growing up one year apart, we shared toys, space, laughter and time. Now as young adults we found ourselves locked, in a moment we could not share. I walked down the hall with emotions of death, denial, pain and emptiness, rushing over me. I struggled to see through the tears and kept walking, sobbing. I desperately needed a Dad but ashamed, I rejected him along with his drinking. When Dad came back into our lives, I felt safe and whole. As a little girl, I only knew what my mother told me of him but she always spoke of his generosity, kindness and humor, when he wasn’t drinking. How could I be so selfish? Daughters need their fathers, to protect them, hold and love them completely. Now fatherless again, it was too late to make amends, apologize and support him. I wished the world would stop but time does not stop, even for death or lost daughters.

Alone and small, I wept and prayed. What felt like hours passed, when Mike walked in the hospital chapel. His arms reached out for me as I fell against him. I longed for this embrace, and it filled my heart. In the days that followed, arrangements unfolded and relatives and friends were notified. Then came the day to bury Dad. After the small funeral home service, we continued on to the church, driving in procession without the cost prohibitive hearse.

The church stood alone on the reservation against the backdrop of miles of rolling hills, few trees and a lone house in the distance. A soft wind blew the prairie grass, flattening it in waves beneath the shroud of the immense blue sky. The tiny church barely contained all the mourners. Once inside, family was pushed to the front. We sat o n, simple wood benches atop an old wood floor. A small alter adorned the front of the room on one side and a wood podium stood on the other with a furnace in the back corner. The service began in prayer. The words drifted past me as I peered out through the cracks in the wood boards toward the cemetery. Headstones and markers lined the ragged landscape, tufted mounds covering past loved ones.

The Indian song started, commanding my attention. The three elders sat drumming the strong beat as they sang rhythmically in Sioux Tongue. Pride rose from their dignified postures and their glazed eyes, as if ghosts were singing through them. The spiritual chorus penetrated every corner and haunted my very being. They sang as they walked down the aisle, leading the weeping procession through the steel archway to the burial site. Abruptly the drum stopped but their voices traveled off into wind.

Slowly the mourners made their peace and drifted away leaving only Mike and me to remember. He handed me his pressed Army jacket, grabbed the shovel and started to dig Dad’s grave, another expensive but necessary service we could not afford and for which Mike volunteered. I slumped to the ground with tears dried to my cheeks and crumpled tissues stuck to my hands. My long brown hair slapped me in the face in the whipping wind which eased the heat as I sat and waited, but brought little relief to Mike as he pitched each determined shovel full of dirt. I couldn’t cry anymore; the grief robbed my limp body. The grave, now complete, would remain empty until the funeral home brought Dad’s casket. Mike breathed a sigh of accomplishment in giving Dad a last bit of dignity. I carried his folded jacket in my arms as he wiped the sweat from his face. With the quiet wind still blowing, we walked in silence to the car and left the empty cemetery together, the sad remains of our shattered family.