The little girl was lying on a straw mat next to the graves of her grandmother and her sister just before midnight Saturday, and she explained that she was there, in this tiny cemetery aglow with candles, to wait for their souls.
Like millions of people across Mexico, 11-year-old Veronica Guzman was celebrating the Day of the Dead, or El Dia de los Muertos, a time when many Mexicans and other Latinos believe the souls of the departed visit their living relatives.
Veronica lives on the small island of Yunuen, a fishing village on Lake Patzcuaro in the central Mexican state of Michoacan, and she was in the cemetery with a handful of townspeople. To guard against the cold breeze that rolled off the lake, she had a checkered flannel blanket of blue and white pulled up to her nose.
Despite the hour, she was eager to talk. One of the first questions I asked as I sat beside her on the mat was whether she was scared of spending the night in a cemetery, recalling my childhood fears. She said no.
In fact, Veronica said, this was the second year she had done it. “It’s a special day because it’s beautiful,” she said. “And people decorate beautifully. And the flowers smell wonderful.”
Under a perfect night teeming with stars in a pitch-black sky, Veronica was guarding tradition. For centuries, the indigenous peoples of Mexico have honored the dead.
The weekend’s celebration, which is capped by an all-night cemetery vigil, is believed to have emerged from the marriage of pre-conquest Indian ritual and Roman Catholic ceremonial practices. The celebration coincides with pan-Roman Catholic feast days, specifically All Saints’ Day on Nov. 1 and All Souls’ Day on Nov. 2.
Throughout Mexico, Latin America and the U.S., people who celebrate the holiday build elaborate altars in their homes with offerings, or ofrendas, of flowers and candles and food and drink, especially the favorites of the deceased.
For the all-night vigil, they transport the ofrendas to the cemetery.
People, some so old they can barely walk, also go to the cemetery and clean the graves of loved ones, adorning them with homemade wreaths of straw and ribbons of red and white. And marigolds. Thousands of marigolds, known as the flower of the dead.
For someone of Mexican descent who grew up in Texas with almost no knowledge of the celebration–because my mother merely celebrated the holiday by going to church–experiencing the Day of the Dead in the heart of Mexico was an epiphany.
Before, I would never have dared to spend any time in a cemetery, other than attending the occasional funeral. Thanks to horror movies, I suspect, I’ve always considered cemeteries spooky places, almost evil.
But there I was, talking to this little girl who not only planned to spend the night but also welcomed the thought of her grandmother’s and her sister’s visit. “They’ll come by and smell the fruit,” Veronica told me, “and then they’ll leave.”
I disagree with those who say the holiday shows how Mexicans treat death lightly.
Carmen Estrada Rondon, 99, whom I met in neighboring Tzintzuntzan earlier Saturday, left flowers in a rusted tin can for her husband, Francisco.
She explained why she celebrates.
“You’re sad because a husband is a luxury, but you’re also happy because you think about them,” she said. “I like coming here because my entire family is here.”
From my discussion with her, to my education by Veronica, I came to see death–and cemeteries–in a different light. Entire families come together to rejoice, not in death, but in life.
About three weeks ago, my father passed away, and I’ve been missing him every day. I worry about my mother, that for the first time in 50 years she’s alone.
But the celebration that I saw at 5 a.m. Sunday on the island of Janitzio, also on Lake Patzcuaro, gave me hope. I was awestruck by the beauty of the cemetery as hundreds of candles flickered against the backdrop of a morning fog.
The sight of dozens of people scattered about, men, women and children, wrapped in thick blankets, gave me comfort. Some were sleeping. Some were praying. Some were just sitting by the side of a grave.
A few hours later on the boat ride back to the town of Patzcuaro, I kept thinking about my father. And for the first time, I didn’t feel all that alone.
