The Wind in my Heart
Twenty-three.
The date when Jigme Rinpoche is giving a public talk at the Union Square Theater. Saturday night.
It’s something. It’s better than nothing. And it’s all I have to go on.
That gives me one day to mend, and knowing that, I’m able to shake off some of the restlessness and relax. I know I need sleep to heal, but I ring for the nurse, worried that if I drift off now, my bruised melon might not retain the revelation. When she shows up, I borrow her pen and jot the number on the inside of my wrist. I’m out before she clicks the nib back into the barrel.
Bab Populer