It starts in the last drop of dusk just before the porch lights are turned on. And as the visiting neighbour pours herself another cup of tea, it trickles down her fifth wrinkle, the one that made her give up on anti-aging cream.

As it becomes more obvious, you battle the urge to go over and hold her the way you did at the cemetery. You remember the story of the child who drowned in the well. She always brought an extra bunch of flowers for that tiny grave as well.

And now her hollow cheeks are wet, yet, her hands remain in her lap, you remain in the cane swing and the neighbour reaches for the remaining biscuit. A dip, a crunch, a shuffle of feet. A tear shed, a sorrow too deep. It is here, in this beautiful, sad silence, you start to admire her courage, her simplicity, her dignity...for who can say why her heart cries? Where her mind lies? How her tear dries?