We passed through a village holding its Festival of Weeping. The villagers cried in steel buckets and brought their tears to the cauldron boiling in the square. They slurped down round bowls of sorrow, except the children who cried even harder remembering bread with jam, candy canes sucked to sharp points after Christmas. For the pot, there were tough little onions left over from winter. Some greens, a carrot, a cup of milk. And sweat from heat, from decades of labor. The postmistress threw in a string of blue beads she’d had since childhood. The mayor one damp wool glove. And the baker a wooden spoon with a broken handle. One voice complained, ‘This soup is too salty,’ and the river roared up for a moment and stretched a swollen finger toward the pot. The soup grew plain, sweeter than plain, and when we left, every thirst was quenched, every hunger.