MARTA
Yesterday was Day of the Dead. Or at least it was in Mexico where such things are still observed. Roman and I were invited to join a celebration at a nearby cemetery. It is a small place. Only about 40 or 50 headstones. I don't think anyone gets buried there anymore. We were invited by our friend Marta who is originally from Guanajuato, Mexico.
There were about 10 of us with wet rags cleaning headstones. An iPod attached to a portable sound system was blasting Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass. I wondered if actual Mexican music was so difficult to find. However, the music was quite suitable for what was little more than an excuse for a party. I didn't know anyone else there so I stuck close to Marta.
Marta was ceremoniously pouring beer on the graves. I told her that many Americans would consider that disrespectful. She laughed as if I were a child saying something ridiculous.
I was removing old plastic flowers and replacing them with new plastic flowers that Marta had brought. I told her that I thought the whole idea of flowers was that they were beautiful and then died, like all living things. That they were symbolic of the fragility of life. Again, she giggled.
She took an old plastic flower and a new plastic flower and held them up to me. She noted that even plastic flowers fade and die in their own way and that was why we were putting out new ones. She looked at me and asked, eyes sparkling, if I wanted dead brown real flowers or pretty red plastic ones on my grave. I thought for a moment and told her I wanted huge red plastic ones and lots of beer. She gave me that laugh again and I knew that she would take care of me when the time came.
I took the bag of faded plastic flowers home. Roman just shook his head knowing that there was no reason to even ask. I "planted" the flowers behind the barn. They had done their job and deserved a few weeks of casual retirement before getting recycled.
Yesterday was Day of the Dead. Or at least it was in Mexico where such things are still observed. Roman and I were invited to join a celebration at a nearby cemetery. It is a small place. Only about 40 or 50 headstones. I don't think anyone gets buried there anymore. We were invited by our friend Marta who is originally from Guanajuato, Mexico.
There were about 10 of us with wet rags cleaning headstones. An iPod attached to a portable sound system was blasting Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass. I wondered if actual Mexican music was so difficult to find. However, the music was quite suitable for what was little more than an excuse for a party. I didn't know anyone else there so I stuck close to Marta.
Marta was ceremoniously pouring beer on the graves. I told her that many Americans would consider that disrespectful. She laughed as if I were a child saying something ridiculous.
I was removing old plastic flowers and replacing them with new plastic flowers that Marta had brought. I told her that I thought the whole idea of flowers was that they were beautiful and then died, like all living things. That they were symbolic of the fragility of life. Again, she giggled.
She took an old plastic flower and a new plastic flower and held them up to me. She noted that even plastic flowers fade and die in their own way and that was why we were putting out new ones. She looked at me and asked, eyes sparkling, if I wanted dead brown real flowers or pretty red plastic ones on my grave. I thought for a moment and told her I wanted huge red plastic ones and lots of beer. She gave me that laugh again and I knew that she would take care of me when the time came.
I took the bag of faded plastic flowers home. Roman just shook his head knowing that there was no reason to even ask. I "planted" the flowers behind the barn. They had done their job and deserved a few weeks of casual retirement before getting recycled.