Okay, here's the English translation of that last segment, describing the events after the wake on Thursday evening and the burial on Friday morning:
The Thursday afternoon slid into evening with a melancholic heaviness. After spending a considerable time in the viewing room, offering their silent presence and support to Agnes, Lysandra, Fernando, and Ruby decided to withdraw. The atmosphere, though respectful and full of affection for the memory of Agnes's mother, was laden with the palpable grief of the mourners. Lysandra had seen Agnes's daughters clinging to each other, their contained sobs sporadically breaking the murmur of prayers, and some grandchildren, already young adults, with red eyes and lost gazes, trying to process their grandmother's departure. The emotional stress was palpable, and a temporary retreat seemed the wisest course.
"I think it's best we return to the mansion," Fernando suggested quietly to Lysandra and Ruby as they discreetly said their goodbyes to some of Agnes's acquaintances. "We can pick up some food on the way. Nana will need her space tonight, and we also need a break. Tomorrow will be a long day."
Lysandra and Ruby nodded in agreement. The thought of returning to the wake later that night felt overwhelming. They decided their presence would be more comforting and useful at the burial, scheduled for eleven o'clock the next morning at the cemetery grounds adjoining the funeral home.
On the way back to the mansion, the silence in the car was dense, each lost in their own thoughts. They passed by a small, home-style restaurant that Agnes used to frequent and ordered some simple dishes to go. The normality of the act—ordering food, planning a quiet dinner—stood in sharp contrast to the solemnity and grief they had witnessed.
Friday morning dawned in Cancún with an overcast sky, a pearl gray that seemed to reflect the somber mood of the day. At eleven o'clock sharp, Lysandra, Fernando, and Ruby arrived at the funeral home's cemetery on Avenida Huayacán. It was a serene place, with well-kept lawns, leafy trees offering mottled shade, and a silence broken only by the distant song of a bird and, now, by the preparations for the Christian burial.
A small group of mourners had already gathered around a freshly opened grave, under a white canopy that offered protection from a sun threatening to break through the clouds. Agnes was there, seated on a folding chair, supported by her daughters. Her face, though marked by the vigil and tears, showed a moving composure. The women from her village, some of them wearing the same elegantly embroidered huipiles they had worn at the wake, formed a supportive circle around her, their faces expressions of solidarity and shared sorrow.
Just as the priest, dressed in his purple stole, was preparing to begin the service, a band hired by Fernando and Lysandra began to play. The first notes, soft and melancholic, filled the air. And then, the singer's voice rose, performing "Amor Eterno."
"You are the sadness in my eyes, that weep in silence for your love…"
The song, with its heartbreaking lyrics and a melody that touched the soul's most sensitive fibers, seemed to break the mourners' last defenses. Contained sobs became more audible. One of Agnes's daughters clung to her mother, her body wracked with tears. The grandchildren, previously stoic, now let tears flow freely down their cheeks. Lysandra felt a tight knot in her throat, her own eyes welling up. The music didn't just accompany the pain; it amplified it, validated it, turned it into a collective lament.
The priest offered words of comfort, spoke of faith, of eternal life, of a well-deserved rest after a long life of work and love. Then, the simple, neat coffin began its slow descent into the earth. That was the moment when emotions overflowed without restraint. Agnes covered her face with her hands, her small body trembling visibly. Her daughters embraced her, crying openly, their wails joining the sound of the band, which now played another sad melody, one of those songs that speak of goodbyes and indelible memories.
And then, as if the earth itself wished to join in the mourning, a group of mariachis, also discreetly hired, appeared along a side path. Their black charro suits with silver buttons gleamed somberly under the diffuse light. They positioned themselves at a respectful distance and, after a signal, began to play. These were not the joyful fanfares of parties, but the saddest, most heartfelt songs in their repertoire, those dedicated to lost love, to the absent mother. The trumpets cried, the violins wailed, and the guitarrón marked a slow, solemn rhythm that seemed like the very heartbeat of grief.
Lysandra watched the scene, her heart heavy. The combination of the band with its ballads and the mariachi with its traditional lament created an atmosphere of almost unbearable sadness, but also of profound, authentically Mexican beauty. It was the way this community had chosen to honor one of its own, with the music that had accompanied their joys and now enveloped their sorrow.
Fernando stood beside Agnes, a hand on her shoulder, his face serious and moved. Ruby, next to Lysandra, watched everything with a silent intensity, her green eyes reflecting an understanding and empathy that went beyond words. Perhaps, Lysandra thought, this immersion in the rawness of grief and the beauty of tradition was offering Ruby a different perspective on life, death, and the bonds that unite people.
As the last spadeful of earth began to cover the coffin and white flowers were tossed into the grave, the crying softened, transforming into a murmur of prayers and sighs. The music slowly faded. The sky remained overcast, but a sense of peace, the painful peace of final farewell, began to settle over the small cemetery.
Lysandra felt the weight of her own losses, the uncertainty of her own family history, but also a deep connection to the human ritual of mourning, to the way love and pain intertwine, and to the music that, somehow, managed to express the inexpressible.