Nohkom is teaching me to make fry bread.
I help to measure flour into her green mixing bowl.
"Your mother loved to cook with me
when she was your age," she says.
"Does nimama speak Cree?" I ask.
"She does," nohkom says. "Just like you."
"Did you tell her trickster stories, like you tell me?"
"Of course, kamamakos. She likes Wisahkecahk stories best."
"Just like me!" I say. "Did you teach her beadwork and shawl dance?"
"I did." Nokhom smiles at me.
"Your mother is a beautiful dancer, Kateri. Just like you."
"Can we look at your photo albums, nohkom?" I ask.
She wipes her hands and takes one off the shelf.
I climb off my chair and onto her lap and turn the pages, looking at my mother. When she was little, she looked just like me.

Thank you, nimama. Thank you for taking on my child,
though you were finished raising your own years ago.
Thank you for cooking and cleaning and doing laundry
and buying birthday gifts and drying tears.
For loving her unconditionally.
Thank you for telling Kateri about me.
For sharing stories about her mother with her.
For reminding her how very much I love her.
For not letting her forget me.