Flowers for the Dead - 2

Colorful Transformation

Eventually, most of the streets on the island lead to the cemetery. A small dirt plot next to the island’s church, it’s nothing spectacular in the daylight. But in the hours before midnight, small areas of color appeared slowly, like someone painting by numbers. First an altar, next some candles, then food and finally flowers. Trails of fresh marigold petals led from the cemetery to local houses in order to help the dead find their way home. Instead of watching the scene slowly assemble itself, I chose to do some more exploring and hiked up the hill to watch a long line of lights approach the island. The boats, full of tourists, were still coming.

“Look how the lake mirrors the stars,” whispered the woman standing next to me.

I stared at the stars in the lake—the wake of the boats blurring them into glimmering waves.

“It’s a gift from the dead,” she continued. “They try to make things beautiful for us tonight.”

Just before midnight, when the air became charged with expectation, I found my way back to the cemetery. It was glowing with candlelight and pulsing with energy. More families had come to set up their altars. More tourists had come to watch them. I was embarrassed to be counted among the tourists. Loud groups of young men stood at the entrance with six-packs of beer. Others roamed the cemetery with their cameras and without asking, took photos of a family at their altar, the flash burning into their eyes. Still others tromped through on their own path, walking straight over tombstones, oblivious. But the altar-sitters continued their activities undisturbed. Either they ignored the distraction or they considered it a festive soundtrack.

Early Morning Stillness

The church bells rang at midnight, stunning everyone into a magical silence. A handful of the tourists faded away and walked down the hill toward the boats to go back to Pátzcuaro. Over the next hour, half the cemetery emptied of onlookers. In the time it took for the graveyard to become quiet, I realized I had been harsh in my judgment. I remembered the balance in the celebration: respect and teasing, triumph and familiarity, life and death. Merriment holds the fear of death at bay. The holiday is a reminder to live it up while we can, and respect those who have gone before us.

Still, I preferred the peace that settled over the cemetery in the early morning hours. Clusters of people sang songs, ate and drank, and played games. Women sat by the graves. Men kept watch, drank and talked with neighbors. A dozen children slept next to their mothers. Other people sat quietly by themselves, in contemplation at the grave of a family member. I tiptoed through the chilly churchyard, trying not to disturb anyone, and wished myself invisible.

• The Day of the Dead is meant to celebrate the lives of loved ones with smiles, not tears.
• AlexPears

At the edge of the cemetery, I saw a familiar face. The woman I’d met at the dock sat among six tall candles, their flickering light causing shadows to dance around her. A dark scarf veiled her hair. Her hands were tightly folded on her lap. Baskets of food were arranged before her, her gaze fixed on them, as if she was waiting to see what was most favored by her dead relative. The tangle of flowers she had carried on her back surrounded the baskets and candles. At that moment, I realized she had placed her offerings on one of the tombstones.

I walked toward her, bent down, and placed my flower on the tombstone. She looked up, and her eyes sparkled in the candlelight. Her hand reached out and covered mine, and then she gave my hand two quick pats.

“This flower is his favorite. My brother cries with happiness.”