There would be no garden that year, Father said.

We children began digging our own
out from earth and stone.

Soon we realized we’d unearthed pieces
of clay bowl and vessel—
arrowheads, obsidian,
and a volcanic-stone carved idol—
treasures to our archaeologist child-hearts.

We carefully held each finding,
examining for clues about the people
who’d left them behind.

My father confiscated our discoveries,
saying they were worth something.
He had no luck selling any of it,
so he donated the pieces
to the town museum
and kept the idol for himself.

We weren’t allowed even a single piece
of what we’d uncovered.
He boxed up our joy.

I painted pictures of the idol
through middle school,
feeling its importance in my hands even then.
People told me how beautiful
and unusual it was for a child to depict.

My father took my artwork too—
folding it for “safe keeping”
in the locked file cabinet in his room.

My joy boxed up,
kept out of sight.

Years later, visiting his home,
I saw the idol again.
It was being used as a doorstop.

The ancestors told me not to touch it—
the idol was hot.
I wanted to take it,
release it back to its land.

Now I guard my joy fiercely,
and support it when I see it in others.

Keeping the sacred as possession
has never made sense.

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