by Robert Tate
I remember the days I tagged along, making sure to always keep up. I never cried or
complained, and I never told. Until now...
I remember we had a slingshot hidden along the path. The games we’d create would
quicken our gait; we gathered ammo along the way. Small, smooth stones were sacred to us
then. We’d stash them in bags my mom made for marbles. Like medicine pouches, we’d carry
them close to our chests.
I remember the day we killed a rabbit, its legs furiously pumping long after it had lost its
race. We carried it home like the Stanley Cup. He coached me to say we threw the rock
rather than used the pocket-rocket. Mom was not nearly as impressed with the stiff and matted trophy.
I remember the day we bought the hand-catapult. It was the 80s and it cost $10.95. We
paid in one and two-dollar bills that we secretly saved. The weapon glowed with childhood
imagination–forever haloed by the solidarity of brotherhood.
I remember the day my brother passed away. He has walked with me ever since.
Robert Tate (He/Him) is of mixed settler and Anishinaabe ancestry and is a member of Couchiching First Nation. Robert recently graduated with a BA in psychology from Concordia University of Edmonton, where he will pursue a doctorate in the fall of 2023. Robert is a Resistance-Poet with two eyes towards social justice.
Capital City Press Anthology 