I finished sewing binding on the salmon quilt yesterday and have packaged it up to put in the mail for Forrest and Manon in Ottawa. I am so pleased with how it turned out, though the sewing is clumsy and the squares slightly lopsided. Perfection has never been my goal. I want them to think of this place when they shake it out, lay it on their bed; I hope they will remember the boat trip down Sakinaw Lake to the little bay at the end, where the salmon were congregating before swimming through the fishways and finding their natal streams.
I think of this ancient Tsimshian song, sung before the distribution of gifts at a potlatch:
I will sing the song of the sky.
This is the song of the tired —
the salmon panting as they swim up the swift current.
I walk around where the water runs into whirlpools.
They talk quickly, as if they are in a hurry.
The sky is turning over. They call me.