Someone starts singing "He Ain't Heavy -- He's Me Brother", and the whole room chimes in for a chorus or two. That fades out and a few people are weeping still, but instead of sobbing alone, they are reaching out to each other and providing comfort to strangers whose burdens have grown too great this night; sometimes exchanging places after a while, the weeper becoming the comforter, providing a shoulder and an embrace of support when they find that the shoulder they were crying on is now overcome.

Different songs strike people's fancies --"Saint James Infirmary" gets a smattering of applause because it is delivered in especially poignant tones. Someone else is struck with the notion of singing "Rockabye Sweet Baby James". No one complains at the choices; there is a tacit understanding, this night, that the eart has its reasons not to be gainsaid by any protocol.

The Silvertone plucks along behind some of the songs. Some else has a small concertina and plays it when it fits,.

Small edges of an unsupportable grief and loss seem to recede sightly before the softer, insistant and gentle light of shared human attention and affection.