A group of women fell to their knees beside the man and keened, wailing his name and stroking his cheeks. When their wails softened, the man’s son moved in with a set of paintbrushes—the kind you’d buy at the local hardware store. The son began to clean the corpse, brushing his father’s leathery skin with short, loving strokes. A cockroach scampered out from inside the boxer shorts. The son didn’t seem to mind, and carried on brushing. This was mourning as I had never seen it before.
