Author: pinkbuddha.org
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Agendas
Plain glazed in a bowl on top of trail mix (Photo courtesy Ayoung Kim) Stories for Smily are stories I have written about my mother, for my mother. The saying that real life is crazier than fiction holds true: You cannot make this stuff up! I checked the GPS for the route to Oxnard. It would
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Get Your Hands Off my Mammary Glands
Photo courtesy Drew Hays via Unsplash The annual medical check-up. Time to kick the tires. Lift the hood, tighten the screws, replace the spark plugs. I registered as a patient at the Christian hospital because it was in my neighborhood. Their mission statement included the following: “Take care of others. Just like you desire that
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Curtain Call for the Seamstress
Photo courtesy Marilia Castelli via Unsplash Stories for Smily are stories I have written about my mother, for my mother. The saying that real life is crazier than fiction holds true: You cannot make this stuff up! She dashes down the hallway with rollers like buoys in her hair, a sewing machine bobbing unevenly under
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The Filling
Photo courtesy engin akyurt via Unsplash Stories for Smily are stories I have written about my mother, for my mother. The saying that real life is crazier than fiction holds true: You cannot make this stuff up! Uh-muh-ni emerged from her bedroom with a confused expression. This was not unusual. Finding me in the kitchen,
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Indian Night: Still Life
Photocourtesy RKTKN via Unsplash Bodhgaya, —the holy village where the Buddha attained enlightenment. Her first trip to India, first pilgrimage, first order of the day: find the bodhi tree and bow down. Liberation on her lips, it had made her a beggar, hands clasped at her chest. She knelt dressed in white and pressed her
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Po Cha Be Like; Equal Opportunity
Photo courtesy Prchi Palwe via Unsplash Po Cha Be Like Tibetan butter tea is heaven, luxury in a cup, silky like cream-colored satin. Like swallowing a perfect pearl. Flavor like sour and salty and sharp. Milk from humble yaks in the high steep ranges of the Himalayas. The national beverage, common as monks in maroon
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Dog is God Spelled Backwards, Finale
Pablo asleep under the Christmas tree. Photo courtesy: Ayoung Kim The year before his passing, he crawled under the Christmas tree and fell asleep on top of the presents. To remind us of the gift he was and will always be. —Dog is God Spelled Backwards, part 1 The routine We woke up to rain
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Dog is God Spelled Backwards, part 4
Photo courtesy: Ayoung Kim I took the boys to the park. Two men waved me over—I think they’re both deaf and homeless. One man wanted to know what happened to Pablo’s legs. I told him it was bandaged to protect the pressure wounds. He didn’t understand, so I lied and said, “His joints gets stiff.”
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Dog is God Spelled Backwards, part 3
Pretty boy Liko. Photo courtesy: Ayoung Kim Pablo is aging before my eyes. He seems to sprout new fatty tumors on a daily basis; there are two that are growing like deer antlers above his ears. I was scratching his chest the other day and felt another plump, round bump. Assuming it was another tumor, I bent over
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FOBby Barbie
Photo courtesy Sandra Gabriel via Unsplash My parents often dressed me in a too-short cherry-printed dress I had outgrown. Photos of our family at Niagara Falls and there I am in the cherry dress hanging just below my waist exposing my yellow terry cloth underwear. I wore them or was clothed in them so often it