The sound of a silk drum makes them lift their heads. They turn their soaked necks that are suffocating inside their collars – those who wear them –, and the women, Maro, Evanthoula of Harilaos, and Penelope, stop fanning the widow, the ripidia remain suspended. They sit for many hours idly and are tired, each has recounted the incidents with their father they remember, of course, repeated stories, many years separate them from those moments, truth and imagination become blurred. One by one, they throw their material into the cauldron where family moments boil, and the mixture comes out strange. They are exhausted from the initial crying, from trying not to make the mother and the little ones hurt more, exhausted from the loss and how each of them feels it, their eyelids are now heavy, each leans into their own thoughts like a beloved pillow. The sound of the long skirt dragging on the floor makes them lift their heads. Augustina decisively opens the window and greedily inhales the wave of sea air rushing into the hall, full of curiosity.
She makes a quick round, in his touch the candle flames tilt and bow to the deceased, she thins the scent from the censer burning beside the departed. She gently strokes the cheek with an imperceptible mark from dried tears and joins the widow’s sighs. The flames return to their proper vertical position, the scent of the censer again stirs the stomachs. Augustina, renewed with courage, approaches the coffin, decisively lifts the shroud and without looking, caresses the mark on the frozen forehead; almost three faint red spots. She returns to her place beside her mother, takes her hand. “Now no one will cry,” the widow quietly orders, and everyone knows that when sweet-talking Teresa has this tone in her voice, there are no objections.
