Of those who had the time to listen, to tell a story. I loved to put my round child's cheek up against her wrinkled one. Her hands always smelled of garlic and onions, beeswax and lemons and a thousand herbs. There was that sense of cleanness and the good smells of the world. A sense of the things that went on.
Babies are born and raised, the food is cooked.
The world is cleaned and mended and kept in order. That one could live with dignity and joy even in poverty. That even tragedy and shock and loss require this basis of loving attendance.