She was worn and thin, a lonely woman solemnly gathering sticks in a lonely place. The yellow sun scorched the brown earth. It was a dry and desolate place. She had no fortune. She had no prospects for the future. As a widow she had no means of income save the occasional dole of the monarchy and her religious community. After gathering the sticks, she would then go home, kindle a small fire and cook a last jar of cornmeal and oil for her son and herself. She knew that she would soon die. Food had run out. Time had run out. The end was near and all hope for the future had died out. So she gathered her sticks for the last time. Tears welled in her eyes as she picked up the sticks one by one. She remembered the better times when her husband was alive, when food was plentiful and the family wa…