IMPERFECT PEBBLES

          I am Old Medicine and I have come to this mountain creek in the white of winter to settle my death.

          This creek yet flows through the frozen tears of the Great Spirit.  In the throat of this flowing creek I see many pebbles colored with the memories of sunlight.  I reach into this yet living water but the cold makes my hand turn very heavy, reminding me, stroking my hand, reminding me.  One by one I borrow pebbles to make a beautiful arrangement on behalf of my death.

          Great Spirit, how could I possibly have added to your sovereign purpose?  How can I possibly honor you now except to kiss the life that was never mine and return it gracefully?  What other arrangement do I have time to understand as an old man?

          I am old and frozen with lies.  I now need freedom.

          These pebbles are imperfect and that is their beauty and I arrange them in the symbols taught to me long ago by my mother and never forgotten.

          Still, I am not finished arranging my pebbles when the child of my death appears to me.  He reaches for my cold fingers…

        And now he fucking trips and falls face down in the snow.  God damn it!

        CUT!

        God damn it, Great Spirit Life Insurance, take three!

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