Vikki Miller

September 3, 1945 – February 22, 2021

Ishfalama Nanih Waiya

Vikki (born Vikki Ann Smith) was born on September 3rd, 1945 in Durant, Oklahoma. She died on February 22nd, 2021 in Yuma, Arizona. She was preceded in death by mother, Mary; siblings, Terry and Don; and eldest daughter, Nikki. She was survived by siblings, John and Betty; daughter, Dominique; and grandchildren, Kayla, Ashley, and Isis.

Vikki’s life was beset by a great deal of adversity and hardship, the consequence of both circumstances and choices. While polite crowds might call her “unique”, those who most intimately understood her strong-will and spontaneous nature might instead offer that beneath and beyond her stubbornness was a determination to survive, and to live life on her own terms. While her strong-will and spontaneous nature created some of the greatest difficulties of her life, they also provided her with her own sense of freedom.

Vikki was resourceful, tenacious, and vivacious. She was free-spirited, charming, and loved to share in humor. Her life was not a conventional one, but it was her own, and she lived and expressed life with that understanding. In that, she sought to cultivate joy, even through the difficulties of her experiences, and she continuously reached out to touch, hold, and know life, and to share and express her love in all the ways she was capable. In all the ways she could, she sought to be a light unto herself in this world.

The Lost Girls

i don’t remember when

the girl of myself turned her back

and walked away, that girl

whose thin arms

once held this body

and refused to work too hard

or listen in school, said the hell

then and turned,

that dark child,

that laughter and weeper

without shame, who turned

and skipped away.

and that other one

gone from me

and me

not even starting to knot

in vein or joint,

that curving girl

i loved to love with,

who danced away

the leather of red high heels

and thin legs, dancing

like stopping would mean

the end of the world

and it does.

we go on

or we don’t,

knowing about our inner woman

and when they left us

like we were bad

mothers or lovers

who wronged ourselves.

some days it seems

one of them is watching,

a shadow

at the edge of woods

with loose hair

clear down the back

and arms with dark moles

crossed before the dress i made

with my two red hands.

you there, girl, take my

calloused hand.

i’m going to laugh and weep

tonight, quit all my jobs and

i mean it this time,

do you believe me? i’m going to

put on those dancing shoes

and move til i can’t stand

it anymore,

then touch myself clear down

to the sole of each sweet foot.

that’s all

the words i need,

not poems, not that talking

mother

i was with milk and stories

peeking in at night,

but that lover of the moon

dancing outside

when no one looks,

all right, then,

even when they do,

and kissing each leaf of trees

and squash,

and loving all

the girls and women

i have always been.

– Linda Hogan