Only in the realm of Praising should Lament walk...

We took my host siblings to the airport yesterday morning. After several years of living with my host parents while their parents worked to support them, they were finally able to move to Spain to live with their birth family.

I got home last night and walked into the living room, where for the past four years there have been three excited kids playing a loud game of cards or fighting over what to watch on the TV.

My host mom lay alone, on a mat on the floor. The TV was on, but she was staring at the ceiling. I called her name, and she turned and looked up at me with swollen red eyes.

I went and laid down next to her, cuddling up to her back.
How are you.
Sad.
Me too.
Sad. Come, eat.

I'd stopped at a friend's after work and eaten there, but you don't say no to food in Bolivia, and you don't deny someone who's just lost three of her children a chance to be a mother. We walked into the kitchen and she poured me tea and put bread on a plate. We sat down.

She said, It's quiet.
Yeah, it is.
No kids.
Nope.
No laughing.
Nope.
I waved at every airplane that passed by today. (She laughed self-consciously). I thought, maybe it's my babies.

I looked down at my plate and bit my lip hard to keep myself from crying. It didn't work. Tears fell on my bread and I half-stifled a sob.

I watched as my host mom's face, that I've almost only ever seen cheerful and laughing, crumpled. She put her hand to her mouth and sobbed, bending over her plate. Tears ran into the deep wrinkles on her brown cheeks. Even her two long gray braids hung sadly, it seemed, twisted together haphazardly today.

Dimelsa and I were always together. Every day.
I know.
My babies.
I know.

We cried, sitting together at the kitchen table.

After a few minutes I asked apologetically, Did I make you cry because I started crying?
Yes.
Sorry. (Pause). My mom says it's good to cry sometimes. She says it's good for your body, it's good to cry when you're sad.

My host mom nodded.
Yes. Oh, and how is your mother? Is she well?
Yes, she's well.
Please send her our greetings.
I will.

(Even still crying, I laughed to myself. That's so Bolivian, to ask after my family and send greetings in the midst of deep grief).

No more crying. We shouldn't cry. They're not dead! They'll come back!

I looked up, startled at this somewhat abrupt proclamation (though true, I guess).

OK. No more crying.
How's your bread? It's good tonight, isn't it?
Yes, the bread's delicious.

She kissed my cheek. I kissed hers and said good night and went to bed, and she and her husband slept alone in their bedroom for the first time in four years.

"...Joy knows, and Longing has accepted,—
only Lament still learns; upon her beads,
night after night, she counts the ancient curse.

Yet awkward as she is, she suddenly
lifts a constellation of our voice,
glittering, into the pure nocturnal sky."