Brooke Forbes

In conversation, with a young First Nations woman;

She talks of stories that are woven;

Of long skies and pushing the rain away,

Of all the snakes she has yet to see, 

Of stretching ranges,

Of dirt the colour red,

Of trauma

Of laughter

Of darkness seeping into the light.

I cannot recreate her, in youth and time and through observation; 

when First Nations women are tired of being observed. 

But I can express this fragment of time, this story, this meeting of worlds. 

I can express my gratitude and grief, upon hearing the sadness but being shown there is still light. 

There’s a softness to harsh stories told through people who are akin to survival. 

Her stories weave around their audience; but we are never at one with the narrative, it is not ours to possess. 

Instead, we are a witness of sorts. 

Watching, waiting patiently for the words to roll forward, step by step, line by line, into a quasi-like understanding, a hesitant connection, an open ear and mind, yes, but also acknowledgment of difference. 

The difference between sea and desert.

The difference between power and privilege.

The difference between knowledge and learnings. 

We can sit together, however, and share in this moment, led through stories with long pauses, pauses that think and stop, beckon you to ask something, but in your better judgment you don’t. 

The pauses take on a new life,

This waiting with baited breath,

Soft and silent,

Like dissipating sunsets amongst the ranges. 

We both know it’s a weighted pause,

Something to acknowledge,

For in the absence of sound, 

There is also, 

The acknowledgment,

Of an absence of equality.