Irreverent, vibrant spiritual guide—Alia died before her time.
We, honoring her, placed a swan-sized crystal in a white forest
of lilies and peonies, amid a flotilla of tea candles floating
in an oblong bowl. As we circled the memorial, a haunting
female voice sang the heart sutra—over and over. Sanskrit
looped through adz-hewn rafters of the barn she’d taught in:

Gate, Gate Paragate—Gone, gone, completely gone—
Gate, Gate Paragate—Parasamagate—Bodhi Swaha.
Gone, gone, completely gone. Beyond Awake
to the other side . . . So Be It.

Ahhh, Alia, truly gone. Bodhi Swaha. Leaving an empty, silk
upholstered chair, where—only weeks before—bright-eyed,
pale and wan, you kicked up pink polka-dot socks and claimed
in an excited tone to have discovered—preparing your talk—
the existence of two kinds of eternity. “And only one contains
sadness . . . amazing, amazing!” you said with blazing eyes.

—Gone. Completely gone—
past awake. Past sadness.