I borrowed a bicycle and explored, in the same way my great-grandfather had gone about on his pony sixty years earlier.
In giving me her pendant, was my mother not only wishing me well on my journey but handing over our family’s story?
In my grief over my grandmother’s death, I derived solace from the idea that something could still be done to benefit her, that she hadn’t left us but was just in a different place.
I felt sure my grandmother’s stories, her faith in marriage, had no bearing on my life plan.
When my grandmother died, lamas stayed for five days next to her body, guiding her through bardo by reading from The Tibetan Book of the Dead.
After a youth spent trying to ignore my Asian heritage, I came looking for it. My journey turned out to be the beginning of an excavation that continues to this day.