Breathe easy. You’ve almost made it! You're probably going to live through another Day of the Dead. Actually, there are two Days of the Dead, this Sunday and Monday, perhaps providing as much as 48 hours to reflect somewhat and peer back in the rear-view mirror of life.
At least some of us can congratulate ourselves for stamina, after the self-abuse we put ourselves through, we might feel as good as dead; after ingesting a freight train's-worth of junk food over a lifetime, washing it down copious amounts of alcohol and sugar, while puffing on a couple-of-hundred-thousand cigarettes etc.
Considering: It’s ironic, then maybe not, the way Mexico pays homage to its dead. Perhaps it’s one of those subtle yet glaring differences that surfaces between two-distinct cultures.
In the States, death is often treated like a taboo, something that only occurs to other people. People north of the border tend to exclude themselves from the notion.
In the U.S. they do honor. There’s, Memorial Day, Martin Luther King’s birthday, to name a few. Too bad the combined celebration of Washington and Lincoln’s birthdays has degenerated into a schlock-sales promotion—-Madison Avenue’s reasoning to liquidate Wal-Mart's or Home Deposit's post-holiday inventory.
If you've traveled Mexico during the first days of November, you may have witnessed the tributes. Nationwide, dried flowers, seeds and prayer stones are respectfully placed on makeshift, candle-lit altars, livening up "Day of the Dead" living rooms. This even takes place inside both exquisite haciendas and modest, dirt-floored homes. No matter, the sentiment's the same. Those installations are thumb sketches of life times of the past, further decorated with photos and cherished keepsakes. Tender reminders are show cased; maybe it's a bottle of tequila, a sports-team's jersey, or the passed-away one's
favorite snack.
Same as me, while witnessing such, you may have been stirred because of a bittersweet familiarity that honors someone admired by those left behind.
Which brings me to my point: We’re as good as dead. Death is more inevitable than the bill coming at the end of a meal. I guess we've all wondered about death, I suppose, at time or another most have been terrorized by the fact.
Yet in Mexico there’s a breath of fresh air. It's up tempo. Ancestral memories comes to peoples' minds. Every soul is collectively remembered. All souls are mindfully assembled and bunched into a refined centerpiece of the past, symbolically portrayed as a bouquet in a non-elitist manner. Those honored need not to have been president, or an explorer, or national hero, or some big deal.
Placing myself in the lethal-spirit of things, as I normally do, I’ve got my own short list to reflect on this year. Of recent passage there's my long-time buddy, Steve Kelso, then Scotty and Mary Ann, and others sprinkled around the globe.
I'll reflect back on the images I can remember. Within the silence of my mind, first I'll say, "hi" to, grandmom and Aunt Dinny, women who once beamed unconditional smiles down towards a little boy, smiles that so warmed the heart. I'll utter "hola," "aloha" and some, "hey, mans' and Philly-sounding Yos," to guys off the block, names that mean nothing to many of you, but nevertheless, they mean something to me.
The list seems to get longer each year.
I figure you got your own list. And if you're into it, or if I've become a friendly reminder, you'll attempt bring back memories. You might take a moment and recall a pair of once-shimmering, root-beer eyes, just the way you remember them.
Perhaps you'll dig a little deeper and rehear a cozy voice of a dad, sensing how it resonated, or you'll rekindle another voice's velvety texture that's of a mom or special lady friend while being enveloped by the warmth, if just for a moment. The distinct aroma of an aunt's perfume or an uncle's smoldering pipe tobacco can ease into the senses along with other good stuff packed into a lifetime's-worth of recollections making Memory's Lane a popular destination during Days of the Dead.
There are past people to see in our mind's eye; one-time coworkers who doubled us over with whacky humor, or sensational friends who were
solid sound-boards or partners of the past who shared concurrent passions during those precious intimate moments.
No matter! Reel back time, say, “hi, dad” or whisper, “love ya, baby, you were the best.” Countless ears belonging to eternal souls, out there in the wherever, hafta perk up during Days of the Dead.
Maybe you're like me and you quiz yourself from time to time and wonder, "Why on Earth am I, here, in Mexico?" And maybe, like me, your answer isn't all that obscure, when you go figure, it’s special here.
It’s healthy. I like the taste it leaves in my mouth. The keen thing seems to be that nobody gets left out during this holiday here in Mexico.
Later on, when it's our turn, those gone before us could offer a helping hand or welcome mat to us new kids on the here-after's block and they just might soften up those who might sit in final judgment.
Disculpe, I don't know a better way to say it, "Happy Day of the Dead!'
(Lou Christine lives in San Miguel de Allende)
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