Apache Rose
When I worked in a New Age health food store in Western North Carolina, the staff always made time to get acquainted with the customers and we gave the best customer service possible. We spoke to them while we were ringing them up and bagging their colorful, precious groceries. Eggplant, Galas, organic chocolate, sweet potatoes, scallions. The store operated in an explosive environment – a true hotbed of creative thought and political points of view. It wasn’t merely the ongoing dispute between Vegans and organic meat-eaters. Spirituality remained up front and personal.
I drew some unique customers. One young woman dressed in native American attire came into my line quite often. Her hair was blonde, a bit matted, yet clean, trimmed with feathers and white bone jewelry with a precious green stone around her throat. She slowly moved - heavy with child, opting to eat the best food in any store. I didn’t know her name or how she lived, but I was moved to do something for her, but all I knew to do was to wait on her. After a time she delivered.
I hadn’t seen her for a few weeks when she arrived back in line carrying the most beautiful baby in her arms. The baby was presented as Apache Rose. I marveled at the beauty of the baby. We all did at the front end. That evening I wrote:
Of your spirit
and your mother’s song
you rose from the deserts
ancient wisdom.
Daughter, you are kissed
by the Great Spirit.
So peacefully asleep in your mother’s sweet arms,
you dream of destiny
as healer and holy woman
tending to those who have lost themselves.
They will call you blessed,
Apache Rose -
a flower in the wilderness of the soul.
Welcome.
I made of copy for her and one for myself. The next time she returned for more groceries I gave her the poem. She took it with her and we didn’t say much. I didn’t give it very much thought until one day she returned with members of her family and the chief himself. The chief or holy man stood over me and asked me if I needed a husband. I pretty much didn’t know what to say since I was in the middle of a divorce. Apparently my little verse made a big impression. The men waited for me to answer. “She was beautiful, so I wrote a poem for her. I didn’t expect anything in return.”
“I can provide a brave for you.”
“I’m honored that you came. I just wanted to give the baby and her mother a gift because she’s so beautiful.”
Apache Rose’s mother stood at the rear silently watching the men. The woman had become a part of the tribe. She had the courage to embrace an authentic life, where as I did not. The men, Apache Rose and her mother left as quietly as they had entered the store. I was ignorant of where they lived, how they ate, or what their names were. I had no inkling that I had just thrown away a rare opportunity. I resumed checking out customers and bagging organic tomatoes, while I supported myself in my studio apartment, never getting to know the people who had come into my work world.
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