Kimberly Guerrero

When I was 12, maybe 13, my mother announced that we were going to Salt Lake City to visit my sister who left the reserve, moved across the line and found a job.

Letitia had not left home with my mother's blessing, but over time my mother had come to be proud of the fact that Letitia had done all of this on her own.

She did real good, my mother would say.

Then there were the fine points to Letitia's going.

She had not, as my mother liked to tell Mrs. Minifingers, gone floating after some man like a balloon on a string.

She hadn't snuck out of the house either and gone to Vancouver or Edmonton or Toronto to chase rainbows down alleys, and she hadn't been pregnant.

She did real good.

I was seven or eight when Letitia left home.

She was 17.

Our father was from Rocky Boy on the American side.

Dad's American, Letitia told my mother, so I can come and go as I please.

Send us a postcard.

Letitia packed her things and we headed for the border.

Just outside of Milk River, Letitia told us to watch for the water tower.

Over the next rise, it's the first thing you'll see.

We got a water tower on the reserve, my mother said.

There's a big one in Lethbridge, too.

You'll be able to see the tops of the flagpoles, too.

That's where the border is.

When we got to Coots, my mother stopped at the convenience store and bought her and Letitia a cup of coffee.