On a more somber note, my father's memory ghosted me just after leaving the dance at the Masonic Temple. My father spent his last earthly moments in this very room before making his journey to the other side, almost 15 years ago. He also attended a dance that night, just before he died. I looked around the room and swallowed hard; the grief never goes away totally.
My son put a supportive arm around my waist and leaned his head on my shoulder. I smile to think my father's memory lives on through his name.
We call my son Dakota, but his first name is really Edward, just like my dad. I always viewed Dakota as a childhood name, in the tradition of my Native ancestors. After my dad died, he appeared once in a dream and said my son will have the right to be the known publicly as the new Ed Moses after he turns 18. That feels right by me.
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