The thermometer’s red vein pulsated and read 113 as I walked towards the heat. The blue flames consume the propane fumes, as they turn slowly orange. Carefully I place corn on the grill, each carefully wrapped in husk by nature, spaced evenly two fingers apart, as to not aggravate my retentive neurosis.

Far removed from a Hogan, Shiprock, Whispering Cedars and the red dirt, the smell of burning husks envelope me. Like dancing ghosts the memories create a constant cadence, their feet create thunderous drumming pulling me farther back in time. The husks burn red, their smell mixing with the crackling tobacco inside and cedar from the fire as they are passed around.

Inside my mother’s arms I hear my father in rhythm, chanting, pushing, beating the world back. His face holds pain as he shakes his rattle; drops of holy water bless my face. Voices join the beating drums, the singing lifts me out of my mother’s arms and I follow the smoke through the roof. I taste bitter tea and the moon is a child’s reach away.