By Kimberley Lovato
You were mumbling when I sidled up next to you along the river. Bodies shrouded in white cloth and draped in marigolds were dipped three times into the holy water, then cremated, thus releasing the individual’s spiritual essence from its physical form, and allowing it to be reborn.
Though death billowed around us, you didn’t appear sad. No one did. Music came from the steps above, behind rows of clapping revelers. Children clung to the colorful balloon pants of their mothers’ swaying saris while dancers swung silver bowls of fire then proffered them to the starless sky…the scene was surreal to me.
Where I come from, death is not a celebration. It is a private journey, and crying and sadness are as much of a requirement as wearing black and whispering.
You put your hands together, and the rumble of your voice started anew.
“What do you pray for?” I asked.
Was the question too personal?
Your smile told me it was welcome.
“Tomorrow” is what I heard. I’m still not sure it’s what you said.
I sank deep into the word and let it shroud me---a person faithless in that which I could not see; who does not believe in God, yet feels a sense of connection to something bigger than myself; whose spiritual knowledge is as shallow as the rain puddles at our feet.
Tomorrow. The word shifted something in me.
Because of you, I closed my eyes, clasped my hands together, and thanked whoever was listening for every gift of tomorrow that has turned into today.
