the widow 49th, 48 hands high.

Sunshine in the summer. A good old Japanese-style mansion built in a mountain village. A tea room, a Buddhist altar set up. The flames of the candles trembling in a flurry. Incense that is ignited moistly. Midori, a miserable widow of sadness. Today is the 40th day since my husband died. He wears an apron on his denim. He is moist, incense and hands together. A widow with his eyes closed. Then, open your eyes. One person tweeted to the altar, "... It's about time... It's 49 days..." and he starts to wipe it on the edge. Suddenly, our traditional transparent pan denim butt that swings to a full screen. He was the widow of misfortune. It was 40 days since my husband ate it. After nights, funerals, and the first seven days of my life, a calm day has finally come back, but it's still somewhat lonely to live without being left alone in this house. 49 days of memorial service, the village is home to a number of forty-eight hands.