The child was too young for anyone to know him but we wove him a wreath from what we had around us. A coffin was made, a work of art snatched from the debris of old furniture, a bit of oak, a bit of pine, made elegant with loving care. All night we sang and played but noone danced. And in the morning the tiny casket was placed on the open cart. The mother would not let them close the box and so the baby lay, gazing up at the blinding February sky. As we reached the town the doors of the houses began to open and women wordlessly stepped onto their doorsteps and drew their shawls about them. No word was spoken, not even a glance exchanged, just a solemn presence, solidarity in the loss of a child.

At the churchyard the father spoke for as long as he could to put off the inevitable moment of turning out the light. And eventually the mother allowed us to tuck the baby in and send it on its journey into sleep. The tiny box was placed in the hole like treasure and we joined around him to sing till we had no songs left. We filled the hole with earth and the familiarity of the work broke the spell. The children found they had a role they understood, stamping down the earth, knowing it was important to keep the roots stable for a young tree to withstand the storms and not be blown away. We left, but the child remained, a bright hard nugget of memory.