By T.S.M. Davies
Under the big blue sky, even in the dead of winter, I was not changed by the structure of modern life outside of my tribe. Like any other day, the felt was unloaded from the oxen and wrapped around the yurt timber skeleton to ward off the chill of early winter. Mountains loomed in the distance, preluded by the rolling hills. They were a constant reminder that my tribe was still strong. Yet even as I worked, I felt something change, a tear in our way of life.
My father felt this too. As I continued to work, wondering what this strange sensation was, he looked off into the distance, toward the trees, like he could see something coming. “Fewer will come this time,” he said. He spoke softly to himself, but I could hear his gruff voice carry on the cold breeze. There was a particular tone of grief to which I could only relate to the death of the khans.