In a revered Tibetan tradition, I read aloud to my father, the dead are borne to mountains and the bodies offered to vultures.
I show him the photographs of a monk raising an ax, a corpse chopped into pieces, a skull crushed with a large rock.
As one we contemplate the birds, the charnel ground, the bone dust thick as smoke flying in the wind. Our dark meditation comforts us.
I ask if heβd like me to carry himβ like a bundle of sticks on my backβ up a mountain road to a high meadow and feed him to the tireless vultures.
"Yes," he says, raising a crooked finger, "and remember to wield the ax with love."