Nohkom sits quietly in her chair, her grandchildren gathered around her feet, their faces expectant and warm. The gentle hum of the heater fills the room, blending with the hush of falling snow. On the coffee table, a cup of untouched tea steams softly, as if waiting for her story to begin.
Nohkom recalls her first day, clutching a small suitcase and watching her reflection in a glass door. The unfamiliar scent of disinfectant and distant echoes of voices made her heart ache for home. "When I arrived at that hospital, everything felt cold and strange. I could hear the voices, but none sounded like home," she begins, her voice soft but steady.
Nohkom describes the loneliness that settled over her like a heavy blanket. Days blurred together, marked only by the footsteps of nurses and the occasional distant laughter. "Three years I stayed there, away from everything that I knew. I missed my family’s voices, the sound of our language. I missed the warmth of our home," she confides, her eyes growing distant.
Nohkom remembers how her Cree words slipped away, replaced by silence or hesitant English. She yearned to speak the language of her heart, but it grew harder with each passing day. "I tried to remember the words my mother taught me, but the nurses only spoke English. Slowly, my Cree faded until I could hardly remember how to say ‘I love you,’" she says, voice trembling.
Nohkom reaches for their hands, holding them gently. She shares how her return was bittersweet—her family had changed, and her place within it felt uncertain. "When I came home, I was different. I felt lost, not just in my words but in my heart. But seeing all of you, hearing your laughter, helps me find my way back," she whispers, her touch reassuring.
Nohkom encourages her grandchildren to cherish their language and each other, reminding them of the strength found in family and tradition. "Never let go of your words, your stories. Hold each other close, so no one ever feels as alone as I did," she says, her eyes shining with love and hope.
