Fear Forgetting

What do I fear?

I fear forgetting.

Not death. Not in the way the young speak of it. Death is just a turn in the trail. A return. But forgetting... that is a colder thing.

I remember an old man in my village. He was the best bow hunter I have ever known. His hands were steady as river stones. His smile could light a dark room before the fire caught. He knew the woods by their breathing. He knew when to wait and when to release. He taught without making a show of it.

Years buried him the way a storm buries a track. Now he sits close to the fire and looks afraid. He seldom speaks. Most nights he only watches the coals and the faces moving in their glow. It is as if the man I knew is still in there somewhere, but time has covered the trail to him.

That is what I fear. Not that we will die. That part is plain. I fear that the names, faces, songs, and lessons will be covered before we have learned how to carry them.

I fear the slow erosion of meaning, the way the river wears the sharpness from a stone until even the sharpest edge forgets itself. I fear the speed of things. The way they come fast and loud, asking for nothing but our attention -- not our heart, not our witness.

I fear when we cease to sit long enough to feel the earth breathe under us. I fear when we pass a grieving friend and choose the laughter of strangers instead. I fear a generation who knows how to ask every question, but never waits for the answer.

I fear tools that do not serve the circle, but replace it -- that crawl toward our fire with silver tongues, promising light, but knowing no warmth. I fear children who sing songs taught by machines and never wonder why the cedar sways in rhythm, or what the wind meant when it passed through their mother�s hands.

And more than anything, I fear a world where we no longer fear our forgetfulness. Because once we stop fearing it, we stop guarding the names. We stop tending the fire. And what was living becomes only smoke.

In the voice of Iron River.