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"May you not rest in peace" and "may your birthday and deathday be the same," read the messages on funeral wreaths in Theinzayet township in eastern Mon state.

Fava beans now grace the menu each year on Gullo’s deathday.

“Deathday” would have been less of a mouthful, but sounded too blunt at the time.

And why today, a week before my thirteenth birthday, her deathday.

“Woe to the man,” the Shaper sang, “who shall through wicked hostilities shove his soul down into the fire’s hug! Let him hope for no change: he can never turn away! But lucky the man who, after his deathday, shall seek the Prince, find peace in his father’s embrace!”