Dear Guy at M10
Thank you for smiling at me
across the breakfast table.
You had your big bowl
of nutritious temple food,
and I had half a glass of coffee
warming my hands.
The warmth of your smile
mingled with the warmth of the coffee.
I watched you eat, bite by bite,
while I breathed, one breath at a time.
Our dear friends were nearby,
and after breakfast, as always,
the Burmese asked us to wrap
every last morsel of leftover food.
Nothing was too small to save.
Into the refrigerator it went,
until we finally threw it away
a week or so later.
There were always dishes
piling up in the sink,
and always one coffee mug
with two slices of lime.
We all knew whose cup it was
that morning, the morning before,
and the morning before that.
Always the Sayadaw.
Often, while washing dishes,
I would look up and meet your smile.
Sometimes you took my place at the sink,
and I walked back to my kuti.
I was the girl at M5,
just “the Chinese girl.”
There were no real fantasies
in a place like this,
only friendship and the quiet ways
we cared for one another.
You brought me hot water,
herbal tea, and Tylenol,
then left them quietly
outside my door.
There was no knocking,
only kindness waiting outside.
I had almost no memory of time.
My head only spun and spun.
But I remember how lovely it felt
to be cared for by you.
But I take back what I said.
There was one fantasy.
Night-blind and afraid,
I always dreaded the walk
from the restroom back to my room
after the evening chanting.
I imagined finding someone there,
waiting to take my hand,
so I would not have to depend
upon the stars to guide me back.
Someone strong and handsome
waiting beneath the night sky.
Of course, in my fantasy,
it had always been you.
Destiny feels strange
now that we can look back
and remember all the silly jokes
we shared even during qigong.
I found my peace there.
I know you found yours.
We may never return to M5 or M10,
or M8, where you hid to work out,
or M13, where I hid to paint,
or the lay kitchen, because we were laypeople.
But what began there,
this friendship, this love,
this unexpected us,
has become deeply precious to my soul.
More precious, even,
than all our trips to Juiceland.
And when I remember the monastery,
I do not first remember the silence,
the half-English teachings,
or the stars above the path.
I remember looking up
from a sink full of dishes
and finding you there,
already smiling at me.