Luci Tapahonso

Ours was a play-filled childhood; irrigation ditches ran deep during the summers. We played in the water and dirt, then inscribed ABCs and numbers onto the smooth ground. Our cat Polly died of rabies; then all the pets had to be shot, some in the rib cage as they thrashed in panic. There was a pink bruise on my forehead from pressing against the wall. We couldn't figure out how such a thing could happen. The dogs were steadfast figures around the farm. They chased strange cars and sometimes invoked deep panic among visitors and passersby. They had cuts and bruises from scuffles with roaming packs. No tags were inscribed with their random Navajo names. Snazzy was skinny; his rib cage obvious through thin fur. He looked as if he might die from hunger, but he ate like nobody's business. Who knew he would die of rabies with the rest? The main thing was to figure out how they contracted it, my parents said. We cried until our rib cages ached; our eyes stayed swollen. This first loss was too deep to even talk about. Decades later, I can finally describe how that summer led us into a grief that felt like a bruise that would last forever. But our neighbor suffered worse bruises: their huge dog, named Dog, was the first to die and was the cause of all this. Their home and fields are inscribed in our memories as "the rabies place." Over time, they must have figured it was too much to live down. Childhood losses run deep, even though we are grandparents now. The memory is an invisible cage of anguished sobs, gunshots, yelping howls, canine rib cages exploding. Sometimes we reminisce and notice that the bruises of grief have turned pale like smoothed-over scars. That initial deep hurt was the start, we found, of how love could die right before us, even as we watched: stunned figures pleading for mercy, urgent prayers saying, "Let God's scribe mark this down. We've paid our dues. Our hearts are inscribed with loss after loss." For some reason, after everything, our rib cages held up and continued to cradle tender hearts. They must have figured that all the prayers and careful teachings would prevent bruises that would weaken us. Our love for those homely animals was deep and would figure in the knowledge that such bruises aren't endless, and that our rib cages are not mere bones. One can die from grief, so now we can describe loss and love as the Holy Twins.

For Marilynn Nihideezhí, it was a moist June afternoon when we buried you. The Oak Springs Valley was dense with sage, cedar, and chamisa; and gray, green, and brown shrubs cradled the small cemetery. The sky was huge overhead. Your son said later, "Did you see the sky? It was purple. I knew it would rain," he said. The dark Carrizo Mountains were so clear. There were so many people, Sister. Many of your friends whom we didn't know, and your former schoolmates whom we remembered as children, and Sister, we met many relatives for the first time. We cried, not wanting to leave you in that serene place. We hesitated, though our father, his parents, and their parents are buried there. Our older sisters thought ahead to bring flowers for them. They huddled quietly over their graves a few feet away. Shideezhí, remember how red the sand is? The men—your sons, our nephews, grandsons, and various in-laws— took turns filling your grave. Their necks and arms were streaked with dusty sweat. They kept their heads down; their faces were damp and eyes, swollen. We had to get it all out; we cried and held each other. My granddaughters hovered near me as if I might faint or fall unexpectedly. Did you see, Sister, the way the grandchildren fed and served everyone? They guided the grandparents and the elderly to their chairs. Once seated, they served plates filled with mutton ribs, potato salad, corn, thick slabs of oven bread, crispy fry bread, and Jell-O salad. They placed the salt and pepper—that enduring couple— before us and implored us to eat. The two delights we relished were good— hot, strong coffee and cold, crisp diet pop. We ate for you; we consumed your meal, Shideezhí. We ate to honor the times you cooked for us— those tasty dishes, scrumptious pastries combined with laughter, silly childhood memories, and always teasing jokes. Sister, I didn't know how we would make it; it is still too much to think of you not being here.

For the graduates of the University of Arizona. This morning we gather in gratitude for all aspects of sacredness: the air, the warmth of fire, bodies of water, plants, the land, and all animals and humankind. We gather to honor our students who have achieved the extraordinary accomplishment of earning doctoral or master's degrees. We gather to honor their parents, grandparents, children, family members, and friends who have traveled with them on their path to success. They have traveled far distances to be here this morning: we honor their devotion. May we remember that holiness exists in the ordinary elements of our lives. We are grateful for a homeland that has always thrived on a glorious array of people and their diverse cultures, histories, and beliefs. We acknowledge the generosity of the Tohono O'odham in granting this land on which we learn, teach, celebrate accomplishments, and sometimes mourn losses. May we always cherish our ancestors as we prepare for the days ahead. May we remember that we exist because of their prayers and their faith. We are blessed with distinct and melodious tongues. Our languages are treasures of stories, songs, ceremonies, and memories. May each of us remember to share our stories with one another, because it is only through stories that we live full lives. May the words we speak go forth as bright beads of comfort, joy, humor, and inspiration. We have faith that the graduates will inspire others to explore and follow their interests. Today we reflect a rainbow of creation: Some of us came from the east, where bright crystals of creativity reside. They are the white streaks of early morning light when all is born again. We understand that, in Tucson, the Rincon Mountains are our inspiration for beginning each day. The Rincons are everlasting and always present. Those who came from the south embody the strength of the blue mountains that encircle us. The Santa Ritas instill in us the vigorous spirit of youthful learning. Others came from the west; they are imbued with the quiet, yellow glow of dusk. They help us achieve our goals. Here in the middle of the valley, the ts'aa', the basket of life, the Tucson Mountains teach us to value our families. The ones from the north bring the deep, restorative powers of night's darkness; their presence renews us. The Santa Catalina Mountains teach us that, though the past may be fraught with sorrow, it was strengthened by the prayers of our forebearers. We witnessed the recent fires the mountains suffered, and in their recovery we see ourselves on our own journeys. We understand that we are surrounded by mountains, dziił, and thus that we are made of strength, dziił, nihí níhídziił. We are strong ourselves. We are surrounded by mountains that help us negotiate our daily lives. May we always recognize the multitude of gifts that surround us. May our homes, schools, and communities be filled with the wisdom and optimism that reflect a generous spirit. We are grateful for all blessings, seen and unseen. May we fulfill the lives envisioned for us at our birth. May we realize that our actions affect all people and the earth. May we live in the way of beauty and help others in need. May we always remember that we were created as people who believe in one another. We are grateful, Holy Ones, for the graduates, as they will strengthen our future. All is beautiful again. Hózhǫ́ nááhasdłíí’. Hózhǫ́ nááhasdłíí’. Hózhǫ́ nááhasdłíí’. Hózhǫ́ nááhasdłíí’.