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“Here.” Nakoma handed Pocahontas a dried cob core, demonstrating how it pried the kernels from another. “It’ll save your thumb.”
Pocahontas’s first memory of Nakoma was harvesting corn, when the stalks were three times their height and an ear of leaf-swaddled yellow was almost too heavy to carry. Nakoma hadn’t judged Pocahontas for asking why they planted squash at the base or if the beans weren’t better off with their own place to grow, she’d simply shared the story her mother told her.
That story captivated her.
That was what Pocahontas did best around Nakoma: listen, observe, soak up her every word how those three sister vegetables did the soil’s nourishment. Besides, Nakoma never looked more beautiful than when she was telling a story.
Nakoma noticed her struggling.
“Like this,” she said, placing her hand on Pocahontas’s to teach her.
The touch spread warmth beneath her skin. Nakoma’s gaze felt warmer, as did her encouragement, how she squeezed Pocahontas’s hand when she got it right.
“Thank you, I never would’ve thought of that.”
“Sometimes the easiest solution is right in front of you.”
It made sense then. It wasn’t the stories that captivated Pocahontas, it was the woman telling them.