Lone Wolves by John Smelcer

hard she tried to hold back her feelings, no matter how much she tried to redirect the hurt through dance, she couldn’t control the emotions rising in her like a flooding river. Halfway through the song, she ran out the front door without her coat.
    The temperature outside had fallen to -40 degrees.
    Johnny Shaginoff, Norman Fury, and Mary Paniaq were standing in the shadows at the corner of the building sharing a near-empty bottle of liquor. None of them was wearing gloves or hats, despite the bitter cold.
    â€œHey, man,” said Johnny, offering a drink to Denny. “I don’t mean to disrespect your grandpa or nothin’, but this party blows.”
    Then he had a coughing fit.
    â€œYeah,” agreed Mary, snatching the bottle from Johnny and guzzling a mouthful. “This is boring.”
    Norman Fury took the bottle from Mary, held it up as if making a toast, and bleary-eyed, proclaimed, “Here’s to the old man.”
    Without saying a word, Denny walked away from them, past the parked cars, past the green dumpster, past the stop sign at the end of the driveway, until she was standing alone in the freezing darkness. She looked up at the clear sky with the starry arms of the Milky Way spiraled above, wrapped both arms across her chest with each hand tucked under a warming armpit, and as she wept she told the stars how much she loved her grandfather and promised to remember everything he had taught her and to live her life much as he had done his—close to the land. In the biting cold, her tears froze on her cheeks like jewels.
    Far off in the hills a wolf howled, his lonely call followed by a long, hard silence.

    Sometime around midnight, though exhausted from the long, crushing day—while the wood stove slept with a warm bed of ashes in its belly, and while her mother and grandmother snored in the adjoining room—Denny turned on the little night light beside her bed to read The Old Man and the Sea, which her teacher had assigned to read over the vacation. In her imagination, Denny couldn’t help but see her grandfather as the old man. She read for half an hour before putting the book away to write in her diary, stopping at times to wipe her eyes and steady her nerves.

    Dear Nellie:
    It felt like this day would never end. We had a potlatch for Grandpa. You should have seen all the people. I don’t think we could have fit ten more bodies into the building. Mom and I handed out all the gifts, which made me feel proud. I think Grandpa would have liked it. My dad was there, or should I say the guy-who-knocked-up-my-mom was there. For the first time I can remember, he actually talked to me. He said he was sorry about Grandpa. I’m still trying to figure out how I feel about that. Grandpa was a thousand times more a father to me. At the potlatch, I promised to try to live my life the way he taught me. I miss him already. I feel alone. Who’s going to teach me now? I was going to write this poem in the morning after a good night’s sleep, but I’m afraid I’ll forget it by then, so here it is.
    Yours,
    Denny

    p.s. I know poems aren’t supposed to rhyme nowadays, but it’s only at the very end. Maybe that’s okay.

    Potlatch

    All day long guests arrive in our village
    huddled along the frozen river
    to mourn Grandfather’s death.
    From the sacred circle of our clan
    skin drums echo and elders sing:

    â€˜Syuu’ nac’ełtsiin yen
    â€œA potlatch is made for him.”

    Pulses quicken to the rhythm
    dancers stream like vibrations
    across the wooden floor
    heavy with rifles and blankets.

    â€˜Unggadi kanada’yaet yen ne’et dakozet
    A potlatch song is sung for him in heaven.

    Tonight I have learned there is an end
    to everything, to every light
    where even the falling of brittle leaves
    breaks the solitude of night.

8
    â€˜Ałts’eni na’aaye’
    January
    O n her way home from school three days after