Day of the Dead

by John Cosgrove (New Zealand)

Making a local connection Mexico

Her hand found mine as the late sun lit cathedrals in gold. Walls of orange marigolds rained to cobblestone streets, mariachi bands echoed from alleyways, and cigar smoke sweetened the air. Her name was Anna, a local Zapotec girl who’d taken a liking to me, despite my broken Spanish. Her olive skin was flushed beneath a fountain of white face paint, and her lips were hidden behind a broad skeleton grin. My face was much the same, the orbits of my eyes, swallowed in black, and a painted mustache, curling up at the ends beneath my hollowed nose. She led me from Zocalo Square, where parades splashed up sidewalks, sweeping us into their undertow. On that early November evening, when the veil between the spirit world and ours was at its thinnest, Mexico seethed in celebration, welcoming their loved ones back from the dead for one night. Drums crashed like the victorious sea, and trumpets screamed like a seagull’s cry. Oaxaca City refused to allow spectators, and when our mezcal was low, they poured more. We swam through an ocean of skeleton brides, their floral dresses pirouetting on the evening breeze to the clash of symbols and snap of snare drums. Shopkeepers locked their doors, traffic ground to a halt, and children ran from their parent’s arms, throwing themselves into our current. The sun sank to an orange haze as parades marched to the edge of the city. Cobblestones turned to dirt, goats cowered against tattered posts, and bonfires raged in the yards of decrepit farmhouses. There was a maniacal glint in the eyes of those around us; a collective trance, woven into their drunken swaying. Night stole color from the world as we surged through the rusted gates of a cemetery. We weaved between a universe of tea-light candles, flickering like stars beside fractured gravestones. The sadness, usually reserved for such places, was engulfed by thundering tubas and vendors hollering from food-caravans. Ghouls loomed above on stilts, and children danced on graves while mothers stared into candlelight. Anna guided me to a chapel at the far end of the cemetery, pausing to cross herself before walking in. The lunacy outside ceased to penetrate its stone walls. Moonlight seeped through stained-glass windows, illuminating the faces of a skeleton congregation, who spoke in hushed tones and floated like ghosts between the pews. We sat in the front row, and I stared at a statue of Jesus above the chancel. There was sadness behind a wash of peace in his eyes, and blood rained into them from thorns piercing his brow. We became still. Anna nestled her head onto my shoulder and drew a black and white photograph from her handbag. It was of an elderly man who wore the same mischievous grin as her own. I reached into my pocket, wrapping my fingers around my best friend’s remembrance card and settling it onto my lap. I’d seen him for the last time at his funeral. He lay in an open casket, cheeks covered in blush, and I could’ve sworn I saw him breathing. Anna’s tears formed a warm pool against the arm of my suit jacket as she placed her hand in mine and led me to a seven-tiered altar at the front of the church. Photographs of others were laid upon it, watching us approach from their frozen moments in time. Placing our loved ones to the altar, I fixed my gaze on a photograph at the center of my friend’s memorial card. It was a modest moment at first glance. He leaned against the arm of a couch, one arm hanging over his knee, and sunlight streaming through an open window, lighting his tangled hair in gold. There was a small smile on his face, as though he always knew this moment would come. To be placed on an altar within a crumbling church in Mexico, beneath the sad eyes of Jesus and under the watch of a skeleton congregation. As if he knew this was how it was meant to be. As though he’d seen it coming from a mile away.