Dia de los muertos
Oaxaca, Mexico
I AM LEARNING about Dia de los Muertos, a lively holiday celebrated over 5 days when the dead are thought to return to visit the living. Here in Oaxaca, Mexico, the city is resplendent with traditional decorations. Special foods are prepared and eaten. Ofrendas, offerings placed on altars, are seen everywhere with photos of the departed, honoring their lives, their favorite food and drink set out to refresh them after their long journey from the underworld.
I have brought a photo of my mother, Carmen, to Oaxaca. I place it on an ofrenda along with a candle, a piece of pan de los muertos, the holiday bread decorated with dough figurines or little dough bones, and marigolds and sunflowers I bought in the market. I prop her picture against a bottle of mezcal left on the altar. My mother would have laughed. Perhaps her spirit will take a sip!
Colorful tissue paper banners, papel picado, are hung everywhere, representing the fragility of life. The bright color and strong scent of marigold flowers, flor de muerto, guide the dead. Intricate sand “carpets” form a beautiful pathway to lead their way. Copal, a fragrant incense made from tree resin, is burned so the dead can follow the fragrance and find their way to their waiting relatives.
It is not a morbid holiday, it is joyous and happy. People paint their faces and dress up in elaborate costumes with calacas, skeletons, the most popular theme, a stark reminder that no matter how wealthy you are, no matter how beautiful or luxurious your clothing, we will all end up the same- a bundle of bones. Large and small parades, comparsas, and brass bands make their way throughout the city. Stilt walkers, fire dancers, costumed revelers stroll the cobblestone streets day and night.
It is customary to go to the cemetery to clean and decorate the graves of your loved ones. I buy a red votive candle and walk through the graveyard, looking for an abandoned grave no one has come to clean or decorate. I’m looking for the grave of someone who has been forgotten, left behind on this joyous holiday.
I find a grave with a rusty metal marker, a white cross with a red heart. My mother, who died almost ten years ago to the day, loved hearts. She wore heart jewelry, had heart art on her walls, decorated her Christmas tree with heart ornaments. She would send me notes and cards with hearts on them. I light the little red candle and place it at the base of the metal cross. I say a silent prayer for my mother and for the unknown soul lying beneath my feet.
Another grave has a fence around it, a roof covering it. I peer through the chain link. This grave is decorated with teddy bears, stuffed animals, a toy car, little balloons. A hand-lettered inscription reads “Juanito. An angel has gone up to heaven to guide us with its light.” Here lies a five-year-old child.
I am heartbroken. All the love and affection showered on this beloved child is so apparent here at this little grave, protected from the sun and the rain, carefully brightened with Juanito’s favorite toys. I imagine his family, the sorrow, the pain, the unspeakable grief, his mother’s tears. How does one ever get over the death of a child, reconcile with destiny, accept such tragedy?
I don’t think you’d ever get over it. And why should you?
