Thank you Fred for sharing with us.
November, 2012
-- Dia de los Muertos --
Walked
a thousand graves last night -- every one a person being missed. Celebrated, honored, revered. Every grave attended-to; dirt
freshened/mounded up, concrete cleaned, stonework dressed as needed. Flowers EVERYWHERE! Iron railings draped, garlands strung; pots,
altars and tombs simply overflowing with vibrant color.
Across
the way and again over there, and again way back in the back, walls of niches
and crypts rambled along, fit to the terrain, nothing level or square. They were stunning and haunting and beautiful,
presenting barriers of Here is where we lie, Do not forget us. Each niche or crypt was different from the
other, hand-crafted and heart-wrought as only the Mexican can. Do you know there's a thousand ways a candle
can cast its shadow? A thousand ways it
can glow? And that a single candle come
across on a forgotten mound can stop you dead in your tracks?
Hundreds
of people milled about, softly, solemnly, with purpose. Hundreds more were still. The dead were of the issue, and there were
offerings to place. A special picture, a
cookie, some fruit or favorite food; a tamale, maybe a banana or an orange. A toy, a carving, a rosary; figurines, a hoe,
some bricks. Diane knelt at a mound of
dirt for an eight year old little boy and left the little straw scarecrow she
was carrying; passed it from her to him, from present to past, from heart to
soul. As she rose she looked to the sky,
and with welling eyes said simply God bless you.
Every
marker a story, every pause an event, every person a soul. Kids fetching water with buckets. Grandmas huddling in shawls. Husbands weeping for wives. Let's sit silently and remember. Let's spend this moment with them. Let's let this evening have our sorrow...
And
our joy. Music and singing filtered the
air in a somewhat disjointed way; some over there singing one song and others
over there singing another, all dis-accompanied by the group right here, loudly
singing its own. Joy. Sorrow. Families and friends gathered-in. Guitars out of tune, a string missing here and
there, an accordion with a busted key -- no matter. Let's just sing.
The
cemetery was huge, spread wide down a gently-sloping, tree-covered hill, graves
packed tightly but individually, mostly in order but in that wonderful Mexican
way. Many were enclosed by a simple,
iron-railing fence; some of the larger ones were altars in themselves. Backtracking became necessary when they came
too tight to pass; but squeezing through the ones we could brought a closeness
that felt us at home. Off to the North
was a church on a hill, white against a darkening sky. A cross glowed blue on its tower, and its bell
rang out to the night. The lights from
the houses falling away from its sides fell in with those of the Barrio. They formed a sparkling blanket, warmly
rumpled over the scene. I just watched
awhile.
As darkness continued to fall, footing in the cemetery became less
certain; but still we wandered along. Something was here that tugged at us, something
that wouldn't let go. Our life? Our death? What it was we thought we believed? We tried to talk about it, but found no words
to fit. Not even looks would do. So we settled on the holding of hands; the
simple, grounding, holding of hands. We
were together, and as we walked along we knew: This was life a-pounding, just a-pounding so.
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