They are the only ones who push me. I am the only one who remembers them. 42,000 incarcerated injuns with small stomachs and shriveled feet. 42,000 uprooted and booted but their roots remain. 42,000 who don’t understand; who won’t assimilate. In my mind I can see them, I can hear their cries, see their teardrops fall on the trail, only to freeze before sinking in the cold, hard earth.

Their strength is secret. Their bodies gave up, but their minds refused. The cold slices through the air, like a predator searching for the weakest one, grabbing onto them with icy appendages and dragging them under. This is how it was.
Let none forget these acts, their souls will shatter like china in a whirlwind, learn from these mistakes; let it never happen again. Drip, drip, drip The Trail of Tears grows wet. They teach.

When I am too tired and too worn to keep moving, when I am David staring at Goliath, then it is I who looks to the injuns. When there is nothing left to look up to, look down. To the earth, to the trail. It’s the earth that holds our best learned lessons. 42,000 who reach and do not forget to reach. 42,000 whose only reason is to push and push.