When we heard the farmer's news we rushed back with him to the house. The door stood wide open as we ran through it and found her lying on the ground. But what was particularly strange about the scene was the way in which she lay on the ground. For if she had collapsed and died it would seem that she would have landed haphazardly, an arm lying this way, the other in a non-symmetric manner, her legs spilled across the floor like a dropped glass of milk. Yet, the woman I saw was lying on her side in a partial fetal position, her hands pressed together as if in prayer tucked underneath her head. It looked as if she had simply curled up on the floor and fell asleep.
"Son, get a blanket from our room." Commanded the farmer.
The boy obeyed, returning with a folded up blanket.
"Here." The farmer took it from the boy, unfolded the cover and spread it over her body. Then, he rolled the sleeping beauty over and back again to where her body was covered and neatly tucked within the blanket.
"Here, help me."
The farmer said to the boy as he slipped his hand under her head and the boy likewise under her feet. Lifting her up, they carried her off into another room.
I must say I was reluctant to follow them but did so anyway. I was arrested by an irresistible curiosity. For the very contrived position of the farmer's wife's body and his indifferent composure which was more ceremonial than sentimental in how he reacted to what was happening led me into the other room. No tears were shed.
Once there I saw the glowing orbs of countless candles situated throughout the room. Some sitting on the dresser, some on the floor, but most sat atop and around the bed where they laid her. The farmer leaned over the wrapped lady and carefully pulled the part of the blanket covering her face away. And then, he stepped back and stood to the side of the bed. He bowed his head for a moment and then tapping his son on the shoulder turned to leave the room.
Naturally I followed them. But after that moment there was silence. And not just for a period but for the remainder of, if I can call it this, 'that' day. And here I must remark that the tracking of time was incredibly difficult. The only way it was even possible was in the observation of the family's 'daily' routine. And this was hard to tell since the first and only experience I had of it was on the heels of tragedy.
