He has gone

We drove through the village, saw the heavy awning and knew we were close. We walked in, I had not prepared myself, but should have done so, knowing that I was going to a funeral. The house was full of somber ladies. We shook each of their hands, saying blessings to each of them. Walking through a labyrinth of outdoor hallways, we greeted more women and finally arrived to the room of his widow. I rarely see sadness displayed in this place. Anger, frustration, even laughter I see daily, but rarely sadness. But it hung all over me today; it looked me in the eye as I looked at many of these women, as I looked at his widow. She wore the customary white dress, and sat on the bed with a white sheet. She wont leave the house for four months. Yesterday morning she was married to a 42 year old man who made beans everyday. By the end of the day she buried him. I saw her tears, her grief was heavy, I thought it might suffocate her. I wished blessings on her, and kept going, like everyone else. We sat outside with more women and I saw his mother. Her face was deeply scared with the marks of her tribe, full of wrinkles which showed that she had lived a long and difficult life in the desert, and covered with her mourning. She too wore the white dress. She looked empty, and no one talked to her. Women came in and greeted the others with high pitched crying. The air was stale. I was relieved to leave, but carried their burden with me to the car, then to the house.