The Monk

I am asleep in bed when I smell incense. 
My mother, joss sticks in her hands, 
opens the window above my head. 
She is waiting for the monk.
We hear him as he approaches,
a faint chanting outside. Not his voice 
but a record player
playing the sound of his voice. 
A knock on the door: my father 
saying my name.  Srei Mol.
But I cannot open the door for him. 
I have not yet opened my eyes, 
but I feel my father in the hall. 
The smell of incense, stronger. 
Did somebody die?
I scream with my mouth closed. 
My father, at my bedside,
touches my hand, then my forehead. 
He kisses the edge of my hair.