LIFE Poem: Translator of Prophecy, by Kunga Rinchen

I carried the truth like a stone—
his leather shoes, cracked as old vows,
a maroon shamthab stiffened by autumn’s breath,
hooded embers banked to ash.
Every gesture etched in marrow:
a man laughing with his mother on the phone,
stitching futures he’d never wear.

The doctor’s verdict coiled in my clenched fist:
Two months. How? His pulse drummed
against the sterile hush, breath warm
as a promise, too vital for whispers.
But I’d seen the scans—night swelling
in his veins, a dark hungrier than dusk.

Evening shadows pooled between us
at the Leaf Hut tea stall. He hung up, smiled.
I mirrored him, my face a frayed puppet
tugged by invisible strings. Words curdled—
Two months—a blade dropped cold between.
He sipped his tea, slow, then stilled,
cup hovering mid-air, bronze leaves
circling the rim.

The final swallow left a milk moon on his lip.
Forty-seven… Alright. My father left at forty-six.
A shrug. Death’s just a train I’ll board—
why cling to the station? Each carriage
lit with might-have-beens. I close my eyes,
skip tomorrow.

I searched the horizon—saw the station’s
empty platform. He laughed, sharp
as sparked flint, while I, clutching
the script of his end, ached
in the limbo between now and then.

How life bleeds—
a breath exhaled,
its warmth already memory.