Ama (Mother)

Ama's hair has turned white at the temples, though I still remember the way she looked when she was young. Before dawn each morning, she was always the first to wake. She lit the butter lamps, fed the stove, made the butter tea, then sat quietly by the fire, watching the darkness outside slowly turn to light while murmuring her prayers.

In my memory, she always rose before the rest of us. When the tent leaked, she mended it. When the yaks and sheep wandered away, she went out alone to find them. On nights when wind and snow swept across the grassland, half asleep beneath the dim, flickering light, I could always see her moving quietly through the darkness.

Only after growing older did I begin to understand that she, too, was once a girl of the grasslands. She sang while herding animals, secretly wore the silver earrings she loved, sat on the hillside watching clouds drift across the sky. Sometimes, shyly, she would hand you a freshly picked wildflower.
Later, she slowly stitched herself into our Tibetan robes, and never truly left this grassland again.
Dedicated to all mothers.