When it was over I rose to find the hostess and bid her good-bye. She turned out to be a tiny woman, bent into the shape of a question mark with age and wear. She smiled gently as I took her hand in mine.

"I'm so sorry about your loss," I said, feeling close to tears as I thought of the twilight years of her life, sad and lonely without her mate.

"No problem," she replied and gave my hand a shake to buck me up. She shrugged her shoulders, asked me if I had eaten my fill and bid me stay a while longer and warm myself by the fire. My mournful sympathy clearly made no sense to her. This was a party to celebrate the memory of her husband. I should eat until my legs could no longer support my belly, drink until I staggered, and honor the old man with merry words and joyful tales. Unless, of course, I was carrying my own, private burden of sorrow. She took my hand this time. Was something wrong?

I thought it over as I negotiated the slippery stones by moonlight and tried to remember which of the identical huts along the path was hiding my sleeping mat. I knew the death of an elder Giay called for a funeral and an immediate party, one that sometimes lasted for days. The family members, particularly the widow or widower, were responsible for the well-being of their guests. They were made to rush around, continually supplying drinks, slaughtering chickens and any other livestock foolish enough to come within cleaver-reach, and generally working themselves to exhaustion just when their pain and sorrow must have been at its peak.

And yet it made sense. During the first, critical days after a death, those left behind were surrounded by family, laughter, and friends. Their elaborate duties left them no time to wallow in grief. When the party was finally over and the guests took their leave, the widow was ready to tumble into bed with exhaustion, to slip into a deep and dreamless sleep. When they finally awoke, the healing process had already begun.