Life: Poetry and an Unexpected Guest

I arrived home tonight (home being a house near campus where I’m house-sitting) to find a mentally handicapped 50 year old man on the front porch who will apparently be staying with me for the next four nights. He knows the woman who owns the house and she is a saint and always welcomes people who are passing through.

He’s a Native American, Salish or Kootenai I assume, and tells me that the reason he’s ‘crazy’ is alcohol and ‘the purple pill’ (acid). He’s incredibly sweet, and though I have a terrible time understanding him, he’s always patient in making himself understood. This weekend he’ll be attending the annual Kyi-yo Pow Wow, and then he’s off to Indiana. In the meantime, I’m his impromptu caretaker; though I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s 90% if not 100% self-sufficient.

Either way, his appearance shatters the placid cocoon I had constructed in the house, reminding me (as if with a sharp thwack! on the shoulder) of my interconnectedness and the illusion (though persistent as it may be) of my ever being alone or cut off from the contingencies of the world.

First Americans,
Ways flattened by my people.
Springtime breathes new life.