by Ambrose Cardinal
Kaskatino Pisim visits her children cooling their beating red sun blisters with her frosty breath. She prepares us for the hardships of those winter months, when our four legged relations go off into the depths of the forest to slumber, only visiting us in the dreamworld. For me Kaskatino Pisim brings more heaviness than boots filling with achy snow, she brings me back to the spirit of my Chapan Joe Gaudry. She brings me to his cheap linoleum coffee kitchen table plastered with a checkered tablecloth, where there is always either a smoke lit pursed against thin brown lips or one being crushed in his well used ashtray. For most of his life he lived in Prince Albert in a tiny apartment on top of what I thought to be a corner store. He moved to Edmonton when yearly doctor check ups became monthly and then weekly, so spending time with him became ceremony as different parts of him started fading into the spirit word.
Quick family check up visits turned into full on poker tournaments, where heaps of dirty loonies, toonies and quarters would accumulate, creating holes in those cheap checkered tablecloths that make me feel close to home. I would sit in the softness of his lap as I prepared my little hands for shiny prey that I would attack when he decided it was time to tell a story. When all squinting eyes became drawn in by the rhythm of his voice I would attack, swiping for stranglers straying away from the “pack”. Despite how deep his audience was captivated by his half english, part french and mixed cree retellings, his heavy leathery paw would swat my delicate scavenging one away. This would always be followed by a deep bellied laugh that would shake my body as if somebody was jumping on a waterbed, he would reach into his chest pocket of his smoke-stained button up shirt and slide me a crisp five, whispering “Here my boy”. This filled me with the type of pride you feel when you fill Kokum’s freezer full of moose meat, I would become wide eyed thinking about all the different combinations of five cent candies that I could fill my big grinned mouth with.
The thought of running around freely in the never ending aisles of 7/11 would momentarily ease my need for attention as I would scurry around his smoke-filled apartment with detective like eyes imagining what it would be like to spend five whole dollars on whatever I liked! Heavy smoke would fill my tiny lungs gradually pulling me out of my imagined corner store excursions. Irritated by those living poker playing chimneys I would start flailing my arms around like a shot prairie chicken, running around in sporadic patterns as if I stole ripe blackberries from Muskwa. No matter the intensity of my choreography or vocal routine I could not stop them from playing their stupid poker game. Did they not care that their little one was left here with nothing to do choking on the fumes of their vices? Defeated I would curl up into a tiny ball at the foot of their rickety table and exhale the final bit of clean air still in my lungs. Being under that table would summon large monsters with sunken in faces that would taunt me with their ugly pointing and pitch less singing of “they forgot you, they forgot you, loser, loser loser”. Tears would pour out of my face as loneliness would try to consume me, however Chapan would struggle to lean under the table to rub my worn out back softly saying “Astam my boy”.
Years would pass faster than the beautiful shades of leaves ripping away from their trees. Visits became shorter and tournaments became scarce; my body grew older and in unforgettable proportions as unrelenting “fat jokes” would bring me face to face with those gruesome table monsters once again. Despite the intensifying labor of each movement, breathe and word, Chapan would fight to shoo away those lingering monsters within me, making sacred circles on my worn back. While cancer feasted on his vital organs, he kept ours warm with the softness of each one of his wrinkles that struggled to contort into the familiarity of his smile. Chapan would have preferred to give his last breath to a newborn struggling to make its way into the world a couple of sanitized units down from his final resting place. He hated being confined to the electrical buzzes of life support. He hated seeing through weary eyes the faces of his sobbing children, grandchildren and loved ones. He would have preferred one last hand at poker, a hard-hitting joke and a sip of red rose tea.
Kaskatino Pisim reminds me of his passing because this is the time of his birth. So during this time I pray to be close to him in the heat of the sweat lodge, praying for one last sympathetic back pat to rid me of those lingering monsters who rear their ugly heads when I succumb to the weight of my self defeat. Deep prayers and restrained muscle contractions take me away from the heat of the fourth round, as I pray to replicate that unrelentless and selfless love shown to me by Chapan (Papa) Joe.
Tansi, Nipahkwesimowin Pahpimohteht Nitsiykason. Nukweegin ekwa amiskwaciwâskahikan ochi niya. otipemiswak niya. My name is Ambrose Cardinal, or “Metismadman”. I am a multi-disciplinary Métis and Cree artist hailing from amiskwaciwâskahikan. The origins of my work comes as a means of dealing with serious traumas during my teenage years, which simultaneously has allowed me to be a decent youth worker. My first artistic love was acrylic paints as I used them to cope with a life changing sports injury that I incurred as a teen. During the early days of the pandemic, I had a bout with cancer. Through those adversities I was able to respark my love for music as a means for expression. Typically, my creative process begins with writing. Which usually looks almost like schematics of an experience or a situation that I have gotten myself into that I think could serve as useful to the prospective viewer. Writing to me is some of my least refined work, as I like to write like I would speak with someone. The thing that I love about writing however, is the immortality and vulnerability embedded in the act of weaving a story. I feel connected to my ancestors in a very intimate way when I have the opportunity and privilege to share a piece of them and me with others. Again, Kinanskomtin for this opportunity.
Capital City Press Anthology 