Weeping Pilgrims

They stood. A solo banjo started on down, chugging in, in the heavy space across the room. When the single voice scraped through the air, it seemed simultaneously male and female, soaring and lowering, clear-throated and guttural.
If you see them father
Please tell them
I’m a poor mourning pilgrim
Bound for Canaan land
The father’s final nail kissed the wood, the hasty repair effected. Men in black clothes shuffled away, embarrassed.
Well I weep and I moan
And I move slowly on
I’m a poor mourning pilgrim
Bound for Canaan land
An almost inaudible double bass twang rattled the Venetian blinds.
If you see them sister
Please tell them
I’m a poor mourning pilgrim
Bound for Canaan land
The wet from the sister’s eyes salted into her mouth. The tongue against the back of the teeth had a tiny ulcer.
Well I weep and I moan
And I move slowly on
I’m a poor mourning pilgrim
Bound for Canaan land
The voice cracked into several, but still hung on to the shape of the tune.
If you see them brother
Please tell them
I’m a poor mourning pilgrim
Bound for Canaan land
The brother shuffled the shoulders of his new suit upwards, eased his shoulder blades round and back down again, glanced uneasily around at the now-closed door.
Well I weep and I moan
And I move slowly on
I’m a poor mourning pilgrim
Bound for Canaan land
The ebb and the flow of the plains harmonium, its attack and decay, its land-locked reverberation, blew and sucked a wave pattern on the curtains above the conveyor belt.
If you see them mother
Please tell them
I’m a poor mourning pilgrim
Bound for Canaan land
The mother stared at the meaningless space behind the now-still curtains. Turned, led the exodus through the now-open door.
Well I weep and I moan
And I move slowly on
I’m a poor mourning pilgrim
Bound for Canaan land
They stood outside. Cloudy but dry. Cloudy but dry. Nowhere to move to.