Bury My Heart...

I was in 7th grade, and my sister was in her junior year of high school when she asked me to fetch a book out of her high school locker one late afternoon. I had never been given a task by her of this magnitude. She trusted me, spoke openly with me about herself, confided in me when there was a problem.

This afternoon, she had a problem: she needed a book from her locker, and for some reason she did not want to do it herself. She's never been lazy or complacent. She got straight A's, took French for four years (something I did as well because of her), and was independent, but this time she needed me to do this for her.

She handed me a slip of paper with her locker combination, the general whereabouts of her locker (to the left of the school library on the second row, about three from the end) but not the title of the book:

"...just look for the book with a picture of an Indian on the front...and look for the title of 'bury my heart' and you'll know"

I rode my bicycle to our high school with no backpack, and I remember this because I felt like a chump riding back with a book in one hand and the other on the right handlebar grip. BMX bikes are meant to be ridden with both hands. There are curbs to jump, objects to bunny-hop over, riding stances that require you to sit far back on the seat, making a "U" with your torso and both arms stretched out on the bars -- the way Harley riders do -- when you're waiting for the light to turn green. But there I was riding home with a book in my hand, awkward transitions into intersections, balance was off, and the cool factor diminished.

Her locker was hard to find. I was sweating. "I can't find it!" I tried the same combination on the whole second row of lockers, when finally the metal door popped open. There was her book. Only one with an Indian on the front, and the strange title, "Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee"

Recently, a friend kidded me about an injury I had about a week ago. He called it the "Battle of Wounded Knee," and my mind shot towards this memory of the locker and my sister's book. I have not yet told her about my injury because she would tell everyone in my family, and everyone would panic for me. We still confide in each other about many things. She sent me a camera-phone photo of a cake she made for me for my birthday that she shared with her boyfriend and her daughter. She holding it, smiling at me 400 miles away.

I still don't know why she did not get the book herself. I have an idea why, but it doesn't matter anymore. It seems almost trivial now, me getting her book for her, except the memory is crisp, it invokes something in me about her love for me, how she turned to me to help solve her problem, and how I without any regard for my self I came through for her. We are still this way with each other. Each small contribution to our history has made us closer. We've been there for each other (break-ups, divorce, money) I am lucky. I am connected. I have a sister.

Today I'll tell her about my "wounded knee"