Bones

I was taking my (almost) daily walk when I came across a woman tending her garden, or so I thought. In fact, she was picking yarrow from an empty lot. "It's good for colds and flu in the winter," she explained. "You dry it and make it into tea." "Hmmm," I replied, taking in the natural beauty of the corner lot. Untended, it was covered with native plants, inclding yarrow, Queen Anne's Lace, chicory, and the like. It reminded me of the field in the empty acre behind our house when I was growing up. "Want to know the story of this lot?" she offered. With a nod, she continued. "A gentleman bought this lot with the intention of building a beautiful home for his family on it, but they discovered bones." Of course, she meant bones of First Nation ancestors, clearly a sacred space. "BONES!" she exclaimed. "BONES! Who cares about old bones? Life is for the living! And thus lies tension between the First Nation people and the potential home owner. Each has a point. Who is right?