The land moved out of sight in all direction like fish jumping and shimmering. I loved him more than I did that day we walked along the dry riverbed on his reservation. He took his shirt off, long and lean, the Indian Cowboy family he belonged to, his braid down his back and the sun darkening the skin. He talked about being a boy and playing. He said on these banks if we were younger we would play war and he pointed out the best vantage points. He reached down, found a dry, ivory stick that turned and twisted distinct like a movie prop. He smiled even white teeth and said. “I found this for you!” I smiled the sky, “I love it! What is it for?” “For casting spells, of course!” I never forgot that day. Holding hands, young faces turned brown under the hot August sun.

I still have that crooked bone-stick. It’s on my fireplace mantle. I found it in two pieces in a box during our final move, super glued it back together. The dry pieces of jagged teeth fit together perfectly and you couldn’t see the brokenness. Even four years after. It is for casting spells. It reminds me, after the punishments for leaving, after the spew of words that bind, the restraining order with two months remaining, some gifts are forever. My daughter swishes her long, dark hair behind her with attitude belonging only to the youth. My son plays in the grass with the new puppy. Even in these times there is dancing and laughter. The magic that moves through the day continues to move.