eleven
“Father.” The white scarf flutters before me.
I struggle to find the right words to greet him. So often I’ve imagined this moment, in which I knew exactly what to do, what to say. Calm and collected, I would accept Father’s welcome. I would thank him for giving me a life dedicated to the Dharma, and then Father would hug me and be my father again. Be the father from before, the father that loved me, the father that didn’t banish me from his life.
That’s how I envision it—always. But now…
A sudden rush of anger seethes within the hollow where my sunken heart used to be. I was a child, barely six years old… how could you leave me when I needed you most? Blatant blame boils in my chest, rumbling and raging to erupt, to spit its scorching wildfire, as blazing hot as any dragon ever
