I could feel the rough cedar bark under my fingertips, I traced the stripes, under over under over under over. My
mother and sisters, they would be beside the fire right now, weaving their own baskets, their voices singing softly
as my younger brother sleeps, lulled by their voices. They would be weaving much smaller baskets, not like the
one that held me.
The creature carrying me on it’s back took long uneven steps over twisting terrain. I could tell I was deep in the
forest, deeper than I had ever been before, the air smelled different, the sun fought to shine here. The damp and
dead ground muffled it’s steps but I heard it grunt as it stumbled, it was trembling with excitement.
I had heard of this creature, from my grandfather, he had told me about his brother who was snatched up one night,
never to be seen again. I forgot it’s name, this creature who was taking me back to it’s camp.
Mosquitoes, read by Francine Cunningham, 2013.
Pastel on paper, Mosquitoes, by Francine Cunningham, 2013.
I had been sitting on a log outside, far from the fire where my mother and sister were cooking dinner. They had
called to me, told me to come over but I didn’t want to, not ye