West
In Ojibwe ways, the west direction is the direction of constant change, death, and loss. That night Sher, Kristin, and the boy found a place to sleep under a bridge just southwest of Loring Park. They did not stay in the stairwell of the church because the girls did not know if they could trust him and they wanted to be able to go back to the stairwell if they needed to. They huddled there in the tall grasses next to the cement ramp that slanted downhill under highway 94. Despite the gas fumes, the area smelled of the “happy grass” their grandmother used to braid and burn. She had a patch out back, in the northeast corner where the pasture met the government woods. She took special care in the fall, keeping the seeds and a few roots in the cellar.
“Smell that?” Kris asked, when an i
