Chapter 1

Sitting there kneeling at the small grave, he had time in the silence of the cool, moist, spring morning to ease his pain with prayer and, meditation.

The child fought for weeks in agony, but to no avail. The yellow fever took his life, in the end. While he suffered, his family, three sisters, mother, and father, watched in agony. They felt his pain. They knew that in the final stages it would be better for him to just let go, join the cosmos, and ease into the great vastness that awaits us all. However the life that flowed through his veins would not let go. His desire to live and be apart of this family was strong, but not stronger than fate. It was his fate to belong to this bardo for a very short period of time. And in that time frame to teach his warrior father about pain, and suffering, and about human emotions, and how it is alright to be human. And to be a warrior, not only do you need to know death, but also have a subtle appreciation for life. Tsan Tzu was right. To know life is to know death. To teach his mother that in her pain, of birth, it was all worth it. The lessons that they would all learn from him would be worth her work in the birth of this brief encounter of the gods will. That no matter how strong her will, she would never be able to hold on, if it is not written in the stars. That the gods rule us; and we are merely walking through their interpretations of our reality. His influence was to be an aid for her in learning that death is apart of her life, no matter how far removed from the battle field that she may be. And even though her warrior, ( the one that the gods had promised to her), returned to their village time and time again, there was a chance that one day after battle she may only receive an urn with his ashes in it. That the next time he heads off to fulfill his destiny, his destiny may be to join the cosmos. She would quickly come to know that life would still go on even though one who suckled her bosom and left in a hurry, was departed, and even though her sadness was lingering, her baby boy, his sisters would have a fond memory of the boy that shared those four years with them. That Yoshiro, inquisitive Yoshiro, trouble maker, boy who would not stay out of the stream, and made mother so worried, that she would not smile when they came home and he was the only one with sopping wet sandals and drenched hakima, boy who stole sticky rice; moments after mother scolded him for trying all afternoon, the boy who always smiled. The girls would know that no matter where they went, he would be watching over them, from the other side. That no matter what he would be with him. And because they had shared that time together they were connected in time and space.

The sun warmed his back. It felt as though his boy was caressing him, and telling him that all was at ease. Faintly in his, minds ear, he herd a child's voice, Yoshiro, whispering, "Father, I am at peace. The universe has embraced me. Let go. Be and exist. Be a father to my sisters. Love my mother. Hold her. Tell her all is well. Most of all live. Let the pain go. It is all right."

She stood there and watched him a long while, as she had done many times before, too numerous to count. But she did not mind. The death of their son hit him the hardest. She knew it. More than that, she felt how it tore his soul in half. She felt it when the boy died, when a piece of his soul turned black and fell off of the whole of his being. She wept for him because she understood that his rank and post would not permit him the dignity of despair and sorrow. She did it for him because she knew that he would remain strong for himself and his family. Not only because tradition required it but because he could, and he demanded it from himself.

Along time past before she approached him from behind. He knew that she was there. He said nothing. He remained kneeling. Softly, quietly, she put her hand on his shoulder. Still kneeling he took a deep breath. He could smell the jasmine, and the sandal- wood of her scent. It was familiar, and home to him.

Standing there, she felt his sorrow, his pain, and his warmth. They remained there for another passage of time.

It was a beautiful scene; really. Despite the circumstances, it really was a poetic moment. It was one of those moments that you never forget. Like each time she heard her children take their first gasp of breath. Or the first time she saw him across the court yard, and when she realized that the young guard was gazing lovingly back at her. Yes it was definitely one of those moments that captures you, and keeps you.

Slowly he rose. Now still facing the grave, her hand still on his shoulder, he began to speak. The words would not leave his mouth. Still facing his child, she spoke to him,"My love, we must return." Slowly he turned to face her. She smiled softly and slightly. Their eyes met as they had for an eternity. As her eyes began tear up, he only nodded at her turned, and started to walk, slowly. The girls needed him too.

They walked side by side for a long while, not saying a word to each other. Even though, his eyes were weeping, and his soul was wrenched with pain he could still smell the sandal wood and jasmine from her perfume. The wind was soft and warm. The spring grass was high in his field. In their silence more was spoken than not. They felt each other. Their souls were merged in a way that could not be described and if it were any one but the two of them feeling it they would not understand, but some how; they did.