Petals of My Name

Adsila. My name; meaning blossom in my native tribe. My tribe is Cherokee. And my tribe is

dying.

We walked and rode and cried and coughed and died; buried in unmarked graves. We were hunted down like wild animals with no life in our eyes. My mother? Dead. My father? Dying.

My sister? Sleeping in an unknown grave. My family; torn and stretched and worn to the point of death. To a point beyond death. To a point where a dead body is grieving because they left their daughter alone. To the point where a sister is silently weeping, wetting the walls of her grave. If only to see her sibling again.

We tried not to drag our feet, but the earth suddenly became magnetic. Death taunted us, saying, “You can run and try to hide.” And we did. We tried. “But, I will chase you to the ends of the earth.” And he did. One at a time, he hugged us, faux warmth overcame the piercing air. We couldn’t breathe anymore and we felt relief. Until we couldn’t feel. We couldn’t feel the pain so our hearts smiled. Until our hearts stopped. Its muscles relax, the shadow of its last smile settled over the once-beating flesh.

Our tribe was slowly taken, one at a time. We found ourselves standing in a long line for a

pleasant rollercoaster ride. Until it was my turn to step into the cart.

I curled on the cold, hard ground. Death said, “Hello." I whispered, “Come in," my voice

hoarse with the final inklings of life. I felt a tear bounce off the petals of my name onto the

ground, soon to be an unmarked grave.

December, 2021

@lyndibreypenmanship

Copyright by lyndibreypenmanship © 2021

All rights reserved