She sat on a wooden chair where a throng of men surrounded the cemetery. She thought she would come to this point every time a husband leaves him and her soul being left in the dirge. She still won’t sing with them whatever elegy she may be put through; yet, upon looking at her face from afar, the children still see her melancholy which she thought was subdued by her fake, as-if-nothing-happened look. Her husband’s death is still beyond her belief.
BY: SARAH GAMUTAN