I light the incense in my small room. Nag Champa, my favourite and my grandma's favourite. My mother loved sandalwood best. But Nag Champa takes me to the Himalayas, the breathtaking peaks, where the snow lion walks on large soft paws, elusive, mythical. The Himalayas, where smiling weathered faces peer from dark rooms lit by flickering candles.
I light the incense in my small room, a dark Tibetan kitchen framed upon the wall, an aged wrinkled Tibetan face hung above. Tibetan prayer flags flutter, as the breeze wafts the scent my way.
In memory, I see my Grandma's humble, peaceful cottage. In memory, I watch my mother light small cones of sandalwood, her huge blue eyes, her platinum hair, her movie star smile.
I light the incense in my small room. How quickly it burns itself to ash.
I love that the smell takes you to another time and place and the memories of your grandmother move beyond the veil of scented smoke. Wonderful to go where the snow lion walks.
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