On the long run from Puebla to Oaxaca, we detoured off the carretera for a rest stop at an old church.

Photo credit: Marne Rizika

The building is in a state of near-collapse. But it is still used by nearby residents, who come to the cemetery to honor their deceased.

The roof is gone, plants grow atop the walls, people have pried stones out of it to use for newer buildings. Mexican recycling.

You can't come here to baptize your babies anymore. No Masses, no quinciañeras. The building is crumbling, following in the footsteps of the nameless Zapotec ruin behind it, sleeping under its unexcavated mound.

But people were interred here as recently as 50 years ago. Modern crypts and grave markers testify that this place is not yet forgotten.

A small glass house protects a burning votive candle. It looks big enough to burn for a month, but the flowers are fresh, placed there this morning or yesterday.

Judging from the condition of the flowers below, Florentino Miguel Vasquez López was remembered sometime last week. Mexicans know that their offerings of flowers will be respected by passers-by, but perhaps not so, vases. But probably nobody is gonna take the Comex bucket.

A small yellow-breasted bird uses the cruciform grave marker for a perch. Droppings indicate he does this often. I imagine Miguel Vasquez appreciates his companionship.

It's a warm, sunny day. A warm breeze blows. Cumulus clouds scud overhead. In the churchyard, a mare and her foal graze peacefully.

It's a peaceful place to rest for a pleasant half hour. Or for some, a little longer.