Hotel Arletta
Southwest Review 09/2019 Vol. 104.1
She comes at low tide—Lummi, or Samish, or Songhees, I should think. I can tell by her woven robes, the basket fastened to her back, and her hair, black as cormorants. She carries her rocks down to the water, never looking up, too moored to whatever it is she’s doing. If she could see me, she might consider me an intruder, even though I’ve lived here for eighty-three years. I know my history, though. There was a time when Indians surged through these channels and straits in their dugout canoes, pulling ashore on the various islands in droves, as if it were Boxing Day in Canada and they were shopping for all means of shellfish, berries, and camas roots. But this one comes alone, and no one besides me seems to be able to see her.