Red ClayBy Artist Roanna Shebala

The hills with red clay and brown roots coming out of the cedar trees 
almost match her red dress. 
A dress made with linen from the nuns who traded for corn.

Small rocks and pebbles slide under her moccasins,
as she followed the dirt road to the 
steeple in the distance with a red door. 

She hears children’s laughter,
hoping to hear familiar voices.
Her heart sinks to the wind whispering songs
with a slight whistle through the cedar branches,
yucca swaying against the wind with resistance.
There were no children.

Left on her doorframe was a letter in a language she could not read. 
Not knowing where her child was, she took this paper
to the local diner, asking for translation.
Hand trembling, she holds out the notice to
the boy who was forced to learn to read.

Using the language that he will never teach his children in fear of backlashing
he tells her, “Your child was taken to place they where they try to make them forget—
Forget their language,
Forget their home,
Forget themselves.”

She hears from relatives of places with 
crosses, pews, staples
where they were told to pray. 
Some would come back with blade cut hair,
and their feet covered with soles that didn’t hold their imprints 
like their moccasins.

There in the distance, 
following the night sky, with cedar berries under his tongue
his hair cut short, 
the rim of his shoes digging in his ankles, 
he could smell the recent wet dirt, sage, and juniper.
He found his way home to the mountains in the north. 

She found a pair of shoes covered in the red clay from the hills.
A fire coming from her home as she enters—there he is, slipping his moccasins on,
grounding his stance in the earth, creating his footprints around their fireplace. 
He survived.
This is his third time escaping,
Never to be taken again.