digging for roots, northwest notes

julia doughty

the fifty-plus, still-blond waitress wears glasses around her neck on a thin chain. at the next table, i see a photo taken at the turn of the century of an old, unidentified makah indian woman digging for roots.

"no love or place to call my own," i hear at the counter, yet each person is living with a situation.

"if it weren't for hope the heart would fail," a pioneer woman wrote. "if it weren't for hope the heart would break."

"you may think from this narration that we have a very dull, disagreeable and unhappy time on our way to oregon, but I assure you the imagination of it would have been a great deal worse than the reality has been."

now, indian women sit around a diner booth, keep the refills coming, laugh.

blackberry brambles are everywhere.
in my dream i tried to answer the customer only to discover my mouth filled with old, gritty tea leaves.

my friend ann writes, "are you frightened at all by all that isolation it would give me the shakes. yes as you would expect it is hectic around here i have no sense of control of the situation here constantly attending to immediate needs never getting all the rest taken care of. colette is growing beautifully a very healthygirl. hart is teaching her to say earthquake and i'm working on mama for her first word. it seems i'm not saying much but it is late and i think i'm brain dead so at least it is some sort of a letter to send."

severed reality, empty bowls, i don’t trip on the roots, i eat the potatoes.