A bluish light beams through the pillared alley where our tiptoes leave trails of shimmering marks in the dew. White shreds of incense dance over the wide beak of a bronze caldron, and tinkling chimes sprinkle their delicate tones on the chant of prayer buzzing around.
I lower my body and press my forehead in the morning chill that stains the flag stones. It’s early, but we’re already done.
We were here before sunrise, Karma and me, to do the offering and prayers for the ones that left us before we got to know them, for his mother and our little girl. They’re gone, and even though they’ve most likely arrived again, there’s also the shattered fragments of him and me left that need to mend. So we pray.
My grandmother taught me well—nothing is permanent, and we cause our own suffering
