I am sitting next to the buffalo print you gave me.

It is precious to me. Not because it’s a one of a kind. Not because it represents my First Nations heritage. Not because it’s dark and reflects the inner mood of my guts.

It is the fact that you gave me a painting. You gave me art. You see art in me. You see a creative machine behind my organic mirrors.

The painting stares at me like a ghost looking for answers. Put me to rest. Bury me where I was free.

The buffalo is hidden in the murky ink background. It’s head emerges and it’s dark eye stares at me. Its bone white horn catches the only light and threatens me. It will haunt me until I can find it’s un-maker. Un-creator.

Half the canvas is complete utter darkness except for the artist’s name which is the only light in the buffalo’s future. What hunting grounds did the buffalo finally rest at? Did it find a lonely valley, full of the bones of it’s ancestors? Will I go there too?

 

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