With the first steps of sunrise Shi-shi-etko skipped along the worn path through the cottonwood trees all the way to the creek.

“My girl, we will not see each other until the wild roses bloom in the spring and the salmon have returned to our river. I want you to remember the ways of our people. I want you to remember our songs and our dances, our laughter and our joy, and I want you to remember our land.”

Then her mother began to sing. Her voice traveled from tree to tree, flowing through the valley, caught by the wind, carried on the wings of eagles in flight.

Shi-shi-etko could not help herself. She looked at everything—tall grass swaying to the rhythm of the breeze, determined mosquitoes, working bumblebees. She memorized each shiny rock, the sand beneath her feet, crayfish and minnows and tadpoles that squirmed between her toes, all at the bottom of the creek.

They were almost home when cousins, aunties and uncles and the rhythmic tap of Yayah’s old cedar cane could be heard through the trees.

“Mother! Father! They’re here!” Shi-shi-etko ran to greet her family.

Sunlight, wood smoke and scents of barbecued sockeye salmon filled the air. Dishes clattered, footsteps pitter-pattered, and laughter echoed from tree to tree.

Afterwards in the late-night silence, tucked safely under Yayah’s patchwork quilt, Shi-shi-etko counted her fingers. “There are only one, two, three more sleeps until I go to school.”

In the morning, when Shi-shi-etko woke, the sky was changing, navy to brilliant blue. She lay listening to the cool autumn breeze sing morning songs.

Soft…drum…heart…brass.

“Let’s take the canoe out on the lake,” said her father. Hand in hand they walked along the creek all the way to the lake.

“My girl, these are the things you must always remember,” he said, gesturing to the trees, mountains and water around them.

Together they picked up the canoe and carried it to the water’s edge.

With yellow cedar puddles, they strolled across smooth water.

Reach, dip, pull back…

Reach, dip, pull back…

The only sounds they heard were the whistling birds and their paddles breaking the surface of the lake, surrounding the with ripples.

Circle on…circle on…circle…

Her father sand the paddle song that her grandfather used to sing. His voice traveled across the water, a chant that kept their pace.

Shi-shi-etko could not help herself. She looked at everything. She tasted the rain that fell on her face. She listened as the water washed every rocky beach. And when eagle song echoed through the valley, traveling just beyond reach, she sang her grandfather’s paddle song, and their voices echoed from beach to beach.

In a day full of sunlight, Shi-shi-etko and her father returned to pack her things.

Finally in the silence of night, belly full, huddled safely under Yayah’s patchwork quilt, Shi-shi-etko counted her fingers— “One, two, only two more sleeps—” then fell into water exhausted sleep.

Shi-shi-etko was dreaming when she hear her Yayah say, “Shi-shi-etko, wake up, my girl. We have some things to do today.”

Yayah gave her a small bag made from soft, tanned deer hide and sinew.

“This, my girl, is a bag for you to keep all your memories. No matter where you go, no matter what you do, remember to keep them safe.”

The sun wasn’t up yet when they walked out the door and into the trees. The path was dark and smelled alive with rain, wet soil and leaves. They walked until the stun was shining.

Yayah brought her to visit a great big fir tree. Shi-shi-etko placed a sprig into her bag of memories. They visited a hemlock, a cedar, even a pine, and each time she placed a sprig into her bag of memories.

They went to visit silver willow, red willow, sage brush, cottonwood, Labrador bushes and even kinnikinnick. They visited blueberry, salmonberry, saskatoon and huckleberry bushes. They found bitterroot, wild potato and wild celery patches. On and on they wen through fields of wild roses, Indian paintbrush, fireweed and columbine.

Shi-shi-etko promised herself, “I will remember everything.”

Each plant they came to, she listened carefully to its name.

Then asked once, twice, even three times, “Is it food or medicine, Yayah? Is it always safe?”

Then, whispering its name, she placed dried berry, root, flower and fragrant leaf into her bag of memories.

That night when Shi-shi-etko crawled under her patchwork quilt, she counted her fingers and said, “One, only one more sleep.”

At home the cattle truck that gathered children waited. Shi-shi-etko picked up her bag of memories, a pinch of tobacco for offering, then went out the back door to her favourite place beneath a great big fir tree. She placed the tobacco at its base, then tucked her bag inside its roots.

Dear Grandfather Tree,

Please keep my memories and my family safe. I will be home in the spring.

“Shi-shi-etko, come inside now. It’s time for you to go.” When they rattled down the dirt road and into the trees, Shi-shi-etko held a sprig of fir close to her heart.

Shi-shi-etko and the other children are seated in the back of a low, dark purple cattle truck. The truck is heading on dark coloured road that is winding over many hills. The sky is dark blue, and the sun is setting in the evening, with warm orange tinges over the land and hills. However, over the truck, there is the shadow of a cloud resulting in a brownish orange over the children and the truck.

Text: Shi-shi-etko could not help herself. She looked at everything— tall grass swaying to the rhythm of the breeze, determined mosquitoes, working bumblebees.

She memorized each shy rock, the sand beneath her feet, crayfish and minnows and tadpoles that squirmed between her toes, all at the bottom of the creek.