I know my older sister passed this way.
At the top of the mountain, I spread my outer robe where perhaps she once spread hers.
I set down my bowl, and there was her staff, the twin of my own.
Using both staffs, I lowered myself down and leaned back against a large gray rock.
I let go of the staffs and my hands were empty.
The mountain went on holding me. Then it let me go.
Now I also leave behind my staff, just in case you ever pass this way.
—Bhikshuni Mettika, Therigatha (Poems of the First Buddhist Nuns)