Victoria Williams: 0136

Following the coffin through the churchyard was the woman’s granddaughter, 16 years old at that time, and too long in the limbs. Head drooping from a curved back and legs wheeling through the snow, hands holding a scarf to her mouth. Like a magician she starts to extract a wet ball of silk from her mouth, and it extends, a long tail, more and more of it. Finally she buries her face in it, a peculiar grimace, shoulders shaking. This figure, ungainly though it was, was still lost among the crowd of mourners, except to one pair of eyes watching from the sidelines who could see the strange light in her eyes. Yes she was laughing, not crying.