(for Louise Bierig)

I see my first Great Lake
for the first time on the last
day in September, Truth
and Reconciliation Day
in Canada, the same day I
watch Louise wade farfarfar
into the shallows of Lake Erie,
eager for a swim.

This is her lake; she grew up
on the Pennsylvania side,
swimming, sailing, lifeguarding.
I feel a bit of water envy as
she plunges in, bobs like a
blonde buoy in the distance.

I bend over the sandy shore,
look at Canadian rocks,
pick up a few smooth ones
to pocket—pale sandstone
like mini speckled eggs.

I wear the new orange T-shirt,
I bought two days ago on
on Scugog Island, home of
the Mississaugas First Nation:

Every child matters.

I put a hand to my chest,
close my eyes, think about
children ripped from their
homes, their people, beaten
and starved by white people
trying to kill the Indian in them.

They nearly succeeded.

Like the beaver, the otter,
the people have slowly returned.
This day honors the children,
the ones who never came
home, and the ones who did,
forever scarred.

Louise, mother of two sons,
breast strokes slowly back
to shore against a low bank
of clouds shrouding the U.S.
side of the lake. She looks
as though she could swim
to eternity and back
if she wanted,

perhaps with a child in tow,
returning him to his people,
the too-long-gone prodigal
come home at long last.