The following days, which marked some festival or commemoration, provided an excuse for waiting. Work stopped in the village. Processions left from the church and wended their way to sacred trees and graves which were scattered over the mountain. My man, it could be assumed, was in one of them...
No one was upset about it except for me. Dad came back from his trip out west and, as usual, went to sleep. Mom tended the garden, cooked a little, read, and wrote in her notebook, which was no longer behind the buffet drawer, but had been moved elsewhere. As usual, Aunt Ida did more stupid...