Excerpt from “Memoirs of an Enlightened Yeti”
By Samuel Vega
“Playing ambassador is utterly exhausting, only if you loathe telling your own story.”
-Sir Metoh Kangmi-OBE
Atop the senseless ranges of moon-kissed stones are wild gusts whipping every last patch of our matted fur. Such a familiar tingling, the snow up here. When you’re as hairy and hardy as we are, vastness often struggles to frighten us. Hajura’āmā Himalaya invites you to dance with her on icy whims and unabandoned whirls. Dance with her, to the swaying, screeching, whistling song of fluffy northern cyclones. Hajura’āmā Himalaya, we inhabit your crags and your halfway spaces, yet you nurse us, both in sun and rocky places.
Pale Hairless Neighbor, why do You tire us without end? Practice resurrection. Life abides in hibernation. In Your stories, You blame us for stolen cattle. You blame us for missing flocks, and You blame us for crippled shepherds. We despise the thought of “discovery” because You, too, would be desperate after winters of moss, frog, and pika feasts. Won’t You heed wisdom from our Earth-Colored Neighbors? They earnestly offer their window to the halfway realm: a haven of rebirth between creatures like You and cousins like me. We are no literary footnote but brothers amongst eternal snows. No more headlines! No more of the slur, Abominable! You didn’t live the life of the faint-hearted footprints fleeing. You didn’t live the life of the hand that protected her own. You didn’t live the life of the scalp You so sportingly stole. At least for now, You think we fooled you. At least for now, You blame wolves, bears, and apes long forgotten. When will You rest in the nests between reason? Our logic is as fuzzy as our shoulders.
These hills are home. For it’s here the blizzards brought us, and it’s here the blizzards bend. When the winds compose a mystery, You don’t shriek to comprehend.
…
*Hajura’āmā: (Nepali) “Grandmother”