She was Khadeu,
had married down to be with him.
But as a Sherpa guide,
he had brought wealth to their home
and their clan.
Rugs of splendid colors
adorned their sleeping plank and floor.
Butter, milk and curd cheese
graced their table.
She was proud to bear his son,
a boy of squat stature and dark eyes,
like his father,
who would surely bring a Khadeu girl with child
into their home as bride.
Yet when he made the trek
to The Mother of The Wold,
called Everest by the foreigners
who lined his palm with many coins
she visited the Shaman,
asking her to speak the words of
The Mother
to share the mountain's deepest thoughts
on how she would deal with her children
as they ascended her crags and rises,
moving toward her peak
fixing ropes and setting camps
for the pseudo-Hillarys,
who though 4,000 had gone before them
longed to add their names to those who
had conquered The Mother.
At the festival of Dumje,
had she not danced and sung
The Mother's virtures?
Had she not drank the strong liquor
celebrating for prosperity, good health
and general welfare of her community?
Yet here she was,
boy-child by her side,
waiting for the 49th day when her husband's
soul could depart their home.
The Lama had cut a lock of her
husband's hair
so the breath of life might leave his body,
But his soul could not depart
until the 49th day after his death.
"Mother of The World,"
Why did you bury him
and the 12 others in that
glacial grave?
Did I not do all a righteous
Sherpa wife should?
Did I not sing in Sherpali,
praising your ways?
Was that not enough?
