I was looking through some of my pictures of my trip to La Manzanilla tonight. (Yes. I am still dreaming of living in a little fishing village.) And I ran across this picture. The structures are tombs in a cemetery right off of the beach. Two things struck me. As I look at the picture I realize that the three tombs almost look like a sailing ship -- as if the whole structure was ready to sail to the Undiscovered Country. The more poignant point, though, is not apparent in the picture. The black tomb is for the body of a 14-year old boy. From the pictures left on the structure, I would guess he succumbed to cancer.
All of this caused me to think again of how cultures deal with death. In our rushed culture, we go through our ceremonies and forget the dead. (This appears to be a relatively new American phenomenon. I remember going to the ceremony with our full family on Memorial Day and decorating the graves of all our relatives -- not just veterans. And the other families in town were there, as well. Maybe we can no longer stop for death, but he will certainly stop for us. -- Sorry, Emily.) My father's ashes, for instance, are in a cardboard box on my piano. On Father's Day, I put a tie on him and take him to church.
The Mexican remembrances of the dead are well-known: day of the dead, night of the dead, standardized mourning customs. All designed to steal part of death's sting. As long as we remember those who have gone before us or were taken from us, parts of who they were will always be a part of who we are.
For those of you wondering when I am going to return to writing about my planning for Mexico, you just read a segment of those thoughts.
