My great grandmother had Cherokee 
blood. She did remind me of Native 
Americans I saw in movies as a child.

She had no eagle feathers, nor did she 
have a horse, not when I knew her anyway.  
Her hair was lustrous, long and thick, 

raven-black even in old age. She told me 
fascinating stories of wild and turbulent 
weather, of spells cast by powerful beings,   

stories of nature and mystical creatures. 
Years later I saw a therapist, not a very good 
one, who thought these stories had damaged me.

Clearly, he knew nothing of what lies deep 
in Southern families: the art of storytelling, 
of passing on our words as well as our blood.