My son has been on my mind. Not the one who left the planet far too early, although you might be surprised he’s not the one. To be more explicit, when it is difficult to be explicit, I should say my “indigenous son.” How’s that for explication? My indigenous son has been on my mind. As I said, my son has been on my mind.
Adrian has been on my mind in a much stronger way than usual. A sense, or rather an image, of proud aloneness grips my heart when I think of him. That’s been happening since he moved to Winnipeg last November. The powerful, tender bond we have is also weighing on me in the same melancholic way as the proud aloneness does. And lastly, Adrian’s people, who have literally always been part of my soul, seem to have their arms around Adrian’s and our bond.
It behooves me to provide some context before I talk about how we, a family of one son, two daughters, one father and one mother came to have an indigenous family member.
But before I delve into my side of this tale of our aborigine, I must add a few other stories.
Let me start with Chief Poundmaker: