Retelling of "The Medicine Bag" in the Grandpa's POV
It's shortened though :[
As an eighty-six year old man who had never once stepped foot outside of the reservation the American government had so cruelly bestowed upon us Natives, I found myself having trouble building up the courage to start my journey. I couldn’t help but wonder if I would really be capable of making such a trip. But after a while of silent pondering, I decided I absolutely must for the sake of my family’s tradition. For the sake of all the suffering the previous generations had to go through. So that was that. On one fateful night, I decided to embark on, perhaps, the most important journey in my life, which wasn’t saying much, but the credit was still there.
I walked- or rather, hobbled, for miles and miles, my feet sore and blistering. My mind was completely devoid of any other thoughts. I truthfully did not know how long this trip would last, as I only dared to focus on the thought of passing the sacred medicine bag. When I finally reached a more hospitable destination, my mind relaxed a little, and I thought instead about how my family, and most importantly, Martin, my grandson who would receive said heritage, would react. They would most definitely be surprised. I thought to myself, chuckling a little. Well, possibly a bit more than surprised. It was no secret that I was not in good condition. As for Martin, he was bound to be overjoyed. He had always been so excited to listen to my many stories of the Natives.
Just as I turned the curb, I noticed a grandpa and his grandkids, giggling as they played around. My heart fluttered, as they reminded me of my beloved family whom I was about to meet. Looking at their smiling faces… I would be greeted with the same thing, wouldn’t I? Martin would indeed be happy to receive the medicine bag.. Wouldn’t he? I laughed at myself once I allowed that thought into my mind. Perhaps my pondering over the bag was a bit more than considered sane.
After a long time of walking and struggling to catch buses, I finally arrived at their neighborhood. My mind was so light that I couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed as I scanned my surroundings, searching rather desperately for my family’s home. I was suddenly enveloped by a couple of kids and dogs that barked at me uncertainly. I stood rooted to my spot, too tired to speak up. That was when a familiar face dashed over and chased the gawkers away.
It was Martin, and as I studied his expression, I couldn't help but feel a tinge of sadness when I saw how anxious and flustered he looked. Not to mention how his voice cracked. Maybe I was wrong all along. Maybe he wouldn’t be so excited to receive the medicine bag as I thought. He reached for my suitcase, but I set it down before he had the chance to even lay a finger on it. “Hau, Takoza, grandchild.” I said, which was a greeting in Sioux. I shook his hand. Once I did, I let go of my thoughts of continuing the tradition, and realized how fatigued I must’ve been, as my hand was trembling. I quickly pulled away and allowed myself to be guided over to Martin’s house. Marie, Martin’s mother, looked horrified when she saw me. They all fussed over me and forced me to rest for a while, for which I was very grateful for. As I slept, I knew that despite my grandson’s evident anxiety to receive the bag, I would have to fulfill my duty in the end.
