Some of the women who knew her, as a child, then later when she rebelled and married me, still ask about her when they bring the wooden crates of government assistance food. Potatoes, onions, odd cans and boxes.

She would have gone off and killed a small rabbit, bird, or snake, just to avoid the contact, then come home flushed and dusty, ready to cook stew. And the way she would gently handle each item in the box, was similar to how she would skin, pluck, or disembowel her catch. Her hands were so graceful, yet toughened by outdoor work. Watching her cook, was like watching someone weaving an intricate blanket, the design already in her mind.

After she rode off, I tried once or twice to make the same stew, but the main ingredient of her hands above the pot, was the magic lacking. Back when I could still walk and ride a horse, if the men were gathered; they included me. I like to believe they had some respect for me, for marrying her, for staying with her all those years without even one son, but also for not trying to convert them to Christianity, as both of my parents had tried. It's an odd thing to explain, but I believed some of their ways and some of my own, never felt the need to change that, still don't.

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