Ten thousand Buddhas

That Friday I finally got my answer: the monks eat the fruit. These six months of visiting temples, I’d wondered what happened to the gifts at their feet. Did the fruit below the Buddha’s belly eventually rot, inviting flies around?

No, they eat past lunch in the afterlife, as good in their bellies as in the dead. Sometimes though, there’s too much for the temple’s residents to feast. That’s why, Joyce’s uncle told me, he slips his oranges in his pockets after they’ve served in ceremony, to be eaten back at home.

I ask my silly questions on the walk up the hill. We hadn’t known the stack of stairs would reach so high, got to the top out of breath. All up towards the monastery are the golden characters of stories from ancient times. At the summit ten thousand six inch Buddhas, glowed in the dark prayer room.

Felt the light happy on my face, and very, very small.