Uncle Alfred

Gone, gone, gone,
The body remains but the breath has ceased,
The spirit is gone, light has faded,
The old familiar twinkle in his eyes,
Gone, gone, gone.
Like the wind, the breeze,
The rains and sunshine,
Here for a moment,
Then only a memory,
A life simply lived.
Gone, but where, where has he gone,
Where do we go, can you quantify spirit for me?
Are we merely carbon containers,
Holding blood and guts,
Atoms and molecules,
Skin and bones and little else?
The breath, the spirit, in woodlands art,
Equal in importance to the body,
Megis shell, called cowrie elsewhere,
Transmitted the breath of life,
From Giichii Manidoo, the Great Spirit,
Or the Great Mystery . . .
On the shores of these Great Lakes,
Where this man and his family,
His people, haved lived their lives.
His funeral will be at the church,
Up on the hill overlooking the bay,
Right next to the ruins of the Indian mission,
Founded by the Jesuits in the 1660’s,
So much history in that place, that island.
Black and white pictures in the tribal offices,
Veterans of the world wars,
Sent away across the ocean,
Fighting and dying for Ottawa, for London,
And then returned to their little island,
In northern Lake Huron,
Dirt roads and outhouses,
Farmers and fishermen,
Just like countless generations before,
Wikwemikong- eastern Manitoulin Island.
Black and white pictures in the ice arena,
Generations of hockey players,
Bringing pride to their little community,
Some fresh from service in Europe,
Giving hope to something better,
Making the most out of so very little,
Proud Thunderbirds, Hawks and Warriors.
They survived the government programs,
Held on to their language,
Despite the boarding school horrors,
Held on to their history and their culture,
The Jesuits tried to tame them,
But today the priest dresses in buckskin,
Speaks their language,
Adorns the church with eagle feathers,
Medicine wheels and spirit drawings,
Smudges with sweetgrass, sage and cedar.
This is where he is from,
These are his people, his family,
Alfred Webkamigad, patriarch and father,
Husband to Lillian, ever laughing,
Ever joking, ever living,
In his many children, grandchildren,
Great-grandchildren, nephews and nieces,
On and on and on, never gone,
Strong and loving, giving and caring,
On this harsh, beautiful northern island,
The dwelling place of the spirit,
The dwelling place of the mystery.
Told they were second-class,
And treated as such, they kept on,
Raising their families, living their lives,
Our generation owes everything to them,
What little suffering, sacrificing we did,
Nothing compared to theirs,
The wars, the social unrest,
Industrialization, modernization,
The collapse of the family unit,
But they continued on gracefully.
Uncle Alfred would speak to me,
The American (Chimookman), from Detroit,
In his language or in English,
Heavily accented, I smiled and nodded,
Didn’t know what he was saying,
Didn’t even matter, just smiled,
Showing my respect, honoring the man,
The ancestors spoke through him,
Reminded us of who we are,
Grace and dignity, despite whatever,
Echoes of our ancestors in every breath.
And so we will go on, carry on,
Find a way to live our lives,
Carry on the memories of him,
Through stories and actions,
In our everyday lives, little things,
In our quietest of moments,
When we are silent and unfettered,
The spirit speaking to us, through us,
When we quiet our mouths,
Quiet our minds to whatever else.
He is not gone, we carry him inside,
They are not gone, we carry them inside,
The ancients breathing, living,
Through our breaths, our ancestors,
All around us, in our blood, in our hearts,
In our souls every single step,
Not gone, not gone, not gone,
He remains with us, they remain here,
As long as we do not give up hope,
As long as we draw in breath,
We are all islands where the spirit resides,
We are the dwelling places of the mystery.