Theirs was a marriage of convenience, no more. Yet somehow, Yasodharā and Siddharta discovered love. Walks in the palace gardens, songs and dances at feasts held in their honor, and quiet moments alone by the lotus pond nurtured their mutual desire.
Legends speak of one night of their love making. While in the thrall of their intimacy, both rolled off their balcony and fell to waiting blossoms that cushioned their fall.
Five years after their year-long honeymoon, Yasodhara gave birth to their first-born son. But Siddharta, strangely troubled, named him Rāhula—”fetter.”
How could she know that one night her beloved would gaze at her back, while she slept with their babe beside her, and leave them? She smiled with such delight then, lovingly gazing at sleeping Rāhula before falling so herself.
But that smile was the last smile
To come upon her face.
We write prosery tonight over at dVerse, where pubtender Lisa prompts us with the sentence:
But that smile was the last smile
To come upon her face.
The pub is open! Come join us!
Frank J. Tassone 
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