Kiwetin had travelled for miles and miles, knocking on doors, kicking up dust and dirt as he blew by. No one noticed. He whistled in the streets. He howled into dead air. Still, no one paid him any mind. He stepped over rivers like they were nothing. He yelled into the ocean. Bow down to me! And the waves laughed at the silence.
So, Kiwetin blew north. He found fire and led it to the trees and brush. He cradled his new friend to his thick chest, helping it move. Fire ate through Kiwetin, devouring more and more with each new ember. Kiwetin, the wind, cried and wheezed black smoke, choking on its own ashy breath. Now they see me.
I meant to write two posts today to make up for my missed story yesterday, but I don’t have it in me right now. This story is about wind and fire. With the current situation of evacuees from Fort McMurray in Edmonton, one of my best friends among them, I’ve been thinking a lot about nature. About the forces that have a will of their own. Uncontrollable. Unpredictable. It is terrifying and awe-inspiring. It is something I cannot comprehend, so I put it into a neat little story in order to try.
I both do and don’t want to write about this whole, horrible situation. I want to write about it for my own sake, to get my thoughts out, to process. But I don’t want to be insensitive to the very real situation of the people around me.
Also, I apologize if Kiwetin is not the Cree word for wind (as the internet has led me to believe), but I will be fact checking with my mother tomorrow to be sure.