Osyei

Hope is not a harmless thing. It can move mountains of trouble, pulverizing them to bits at the moment of its birth. Joyous tears, moist with anticipation, trickle down like sparking reaching fingers, yearning and hungry to replenish the soul. You are the gift hope gave to me. I leap with elation. I yelp like a wolf eagerly calling her comrade. Join me in joyousness until sorrow turns to dust.

Osyei (pronounced ooh-dew-gee-guh-dee in English) is the word for hope in the Cherokee (Tsalagi) language.

Beneath the Red-Hot Sky

The shadow woman swept up the ashen words of conversations that dissipated into smoke in the new morning breeze. She collected each fragment like puzzle pieces, not trying to put them back together, but instead to form new truths of her own making, born from her own experience and the wisdom from her grandmother’s lips that trickled down like rain.

That was the only comfort earth’s children had as the blistering heat beat them all into submission as it absorbed every bit of moisture from the air. There would be no running today; no need for any of them to rush about as if they had purpose. Today was a day for stillness and calm. Even the birds were quiet in the sweltering scorch of daybreak.

A lone sweat droplet clung to the tip of a man’s nose teasing any who saw him with the possibility of its finally falling. Somehow it remained; adjusting its grasp to every syllable and head-jerk, he uttered. He had forgotten old lessons, old words. He shuffled through the day unaware of his new companion beneath the red-hot sky.

Across town, a mother yelled at howling baby. The AC was broken and the rent was due. She existed amid the stench of dirty diapers and clichés. She didn’t have time for lessons. She wasn’t aware of anything but the sweat-stained sheets on her empty bed and the baby she couldn’t calm in the stifling heat.

They were like so many others on that fervid day. They were certain it would pass as all things passed.

Shadow woman felt the blazing air thicken like sludge. The weight of old words was stifling. There was no fixing the current climate of misunderstandings and cloudy judgments. People would have to learn how to rearrange their own thoughts and words one day. She was weakening. There had been too many fiery exchanges of late, and she hadn’t been able to provide the necessary serenity to cool them.

The world was moving too fast. So much faster than the days of old stories repeated on parched lips. Some words had ignited wars, caused radioactive calamities. It was all too much. The only hope was rain. The only hope was that the mercy of the rain hadn’t dried alone and it would be enough to satiate old words and restore tranquility to this charged atmosphere.

"We are all one, my children," she murmured still hoping they would learn. "We are all one."