The Basket

He mentioned that he had ordered an authentic native basket from the Little River reserve. At the time, I could not understand why he kept going on about it. He explained how it fit the curve of the back, it’s light weight and the special, adjustable deer skin straps and on and on. You would think that to own one was some kind of rite of passage.
We had known each other for many years. Our common interest in Nature and all Her wonders had brought us together. Looking back I would say neither of us expected to fall in love. Neither of us would think it possible. But a small backpack, woven of sacred ash tree strips, would be the object that changed our lives forever.

The first time I saw the basket was when we had arranged to meet at the head of Mariner’s Bay. By the time I arrived, he had already been waiting for sometime. I apologized for being late and he just smiled and said, “That’s okay, you were already here when I arrived. I carry you in my heart.”
We ascended the crest of the dyke. It was a grassy mound about 10 feet high and just as wide across. It was built to keep the high tides from flooding the lowland pastures. We followed a footpath along the dyke to a perfect picnic spot.
We sat down, the basket between us and started to remove it’s contents.That was the beginning of the basket in our life together.
It held diverse things: maybe a poem, a meal or an offering for the goddess and always the makings for at least two cups of really good tea. There could be something to read, a warm blanket or something bright and totally useless.The basket was always with us and ready to provide. It never became empty and if something was forgotten and wasn’t there, it was because it
wasn’t needed. The basket seemed to know.
Above all things, the basket was mostly filled with love. Sometimes love can be frightening or make you feel insecure or lonely. But the basket held it tightly and kept it safe. There is no lid on the basket, the contents, whatever they are, stay because they want to.
He is gone now. But we are still woven together, like the strips of the basket. The basket that now sits on a shelf in our cabin. When we walk together now, don’t look for his footprints. I am the only one who can see them. When I see any native weaving, my eyes fill with tears. Not tears of sorrow but tears of gladness. We put an eternity of love into the few short years we had. Our Mi’kmaq basket shared it with us.
THE END