before your new father dreamed of the flock of rubythroats announcing your eighth reincarnation. In that life, there were popcorn Fridays, pillow fights with Lizzie, a NASA snowglobe with one bobbing astronaut, soft flannel pyjamas, Mama’s rose-scented kisses as the sickness took hold. This new life is sparse, dressing you in stiff saffron robes, laying you on straw-filled futons, pouring you yak butter tea for breakfast. But sometimes, when the monks think you’re praying, you set sail through the oceans of stars, take your spot on the sunken plaid couch between Mama and Lizzie, inhale the scent of unforgotten roses.