There is an old Indian chief who remembers the day he could run through the forest and not make a sound. That was back when he had the strength to pull back his bow and let his arrows fly. These days arthritis has made camp in his joints. His vision can no longer see the fish in the stream. For him, spear fishing is just one more thing he is not able to do.
He does not sit cross-legged on
the ground, for he’d fight a losing battle to get up again. His bones make the noise of snapping twigs,
and his mind struggles to recall the past.
He takes white-man Tylenol and aspirin once a day. Behind his back they call him Stumbling Bayer. He has become allergic to war paint and accidentally
cut himself on his tomahawk, so that is now kept just out of reach.
Soon smoke signals will be sent to the Hospice Tribe. Ceremonial blankets are already being woven. Stumbling Bayer will travel to the happy hunting ground, where there is abundant game, warm summer breezes and star-filled nights. Of course the arrows will have those little rubber suction cups and not sharp points. After all, it's heaven for the animals too.
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