It was dark outside when I set down my tools. At some point, I had lit a kerosene lamp, which now illuminated the rough outlines of The Marriage of Hiawatha, bringing to mind the fire-lit faces of my family in our winter lodge. I reached for the tobacco pouch and pipe that hung on the wall and nestled into the pillows I kept in the corner of the wide window ledge. I blew tobacco smoke out the open window to carry my prayer: “I have created this for you, Great Spirit,” I said. The sculpture was my gift, and there was something I wanted to ask for in exchange—a family of my own.

            But I...

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