palpable grief

The smell of incense fills the air around the chapel. Bodies are squeezed inside and pour out the entrances. Old women, teenagers and kids crowd the sides of the building, standing, peering in, and seated on long benches. Everyone sweats; the sun is unrelenting.

The funeral service has barely begun when the first mourner’s shrieks can be heard above the choir. Her back arches, her leg muscles contract, she hits the floor and begins writhing. One of her shoes lands under the alter and the other skids across the cement floor.

Then others chime in. First, they whimper but soon the whimpers turn to wails. By the time the service ends and the mourners have processed into the street, there are sundry women lying prostrate on the ground, face down, their bodies twitching. Some of them have men holding them down or sitting on them.

The sounds of palpable grief dissipate as the procession moves down the road toward the cemetery, led by a tuba and a fine Haitian band.