"My grandmother was certain that her son was dead. She closed his eyes and closed the door of the room on him. Behind her was something more important than death as long as it happened. The Al-Samahi band was roaming around the village, and eventually settled at a nearby Wasaya, playing until after midnight. I went out after it and enjoyed the music and songs. She even sat on a chair in the heart of the Wasaya and sent someone to bring her nuts and smoked honey. When she returned after she had been filled with songs and staying up late, she washed her son's body, then pushed him with her husband and the rest of the men to bury him in the middle of the night, while the notes were faintly seeping into the graves. Thanks to my grandmother, I was saved with my name from the names of uncles and relatives, and she even saved me from the names of family thieves despite the glorious pride in her, as if it was a promise that she would choose my name and I would tell her stories."