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Grandmother was frail. It often kept her inactive. What had always been so natural to her, chopping wood to warm the Hogan and to prepare a simple meal, was now a major task. It was difficult to watch her. She had much energy in her youth. As the days slipped away grandmother sat quietly and looked off into the distance. Locked up in her world of silence. How she had loved to ride the painted pony, riding through the arid desert, strong and confidant. It was a beautiful sight to my then young eyes. She had taught me the tradition of dance. Dance came natural to her. She often relived the experience she once had while visiting the ocean. It was a one time experience that she held dear to her heart. She described how the liquid gold danced upon the water. Brilliant and bright. She thanked our creator for the opportunity to see with her own eyes, only, what she had heard from tourists that frequented the store on the reservation. With my heart I revered the times of story telling and I determined to cling to the ways of our people.

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