Swirls of weisang curl up to the morning sky and white silk flows around my neck—the ngakpa welcomes us with an auspicious offering of gratitude and appreciation. My fingers fumble with the frayed ends of the khata, and my heart goes into hiding. Never have I been the bearer of bitter news like this.
“So good to see you all again.” The ngakpa’s slender hands urge us into the house, down the hallway into his room where the golden sun sprinkles her delicate dust all over the richly hued carpets, and the zest of pine and cedar ambles on a fleeting draft from the open window pane.
Blood rushes to my head as I lower myself three times in front of the small shrine, curated with care. My temples throb, and my mind stirs in all directions. Even the ever-loving gaze of the Buddha can’t put my
