El Panteón
It's not something that would occur to me living in the USA. But things are different here. Graveyards often are within walking distance of the center of town. They're not abandoned, neglected places. You'll always see people visiting them.
Mexican people do cemeteries much better than those of us who are descended from Northern European stock, what with our Calvinistic avoidance of ostentation in spiritual matters. Mexican panteónes can be almost joyful places, especially right after Day of the Dead, when graves have been primped and decorated. A walk through one can be relaxing, peaceful, even rewarding.
You know you're nearing a Mexican cemetery when you run across a stand selling jalapeño cans, the preferred vase for graveyard flowers.
Only this one stand was operating two days after Day of the Dead, but it's more or less permanent. Someone is always coming by to visit a departed loved one, and these ladies fill a need for visitors who come during the rest of the year.
Above the entrance to the panteón, a poster urges neighbors to reduce the spread of dengue by eliminating standing water where mosquitos can breed. It's an interesting choice of places to hang it.
(I see public health notices everywhere, addressing cholera, dysentery, pre-natal care, nutrition. I guess neither the education system or the press fills the need for health information well enough.)
The flowers will fade soon enough, but they can be enjoyed today. Images of Guadalupe, angels and suffering Christs will last longer. I used to think Mexican cemeteries looked garish. Today I think those in the US look drab.
On the right you can make out an open bottle of Coke—the gift of a favorite drink for the spirit lingering nearby.
You plan ahead for a space in the panteón. Buy now, use later. Señora Luz Maria Baltazar has posted her claim to the site on the right, with a sign warning others against sneaking in and burying someone else there.
Many graves are quite large. They have faux marble vases and bible-like books on which are inscribed religious sayings or the names of the dead interred there. Cast aluminum crucifixes and plaques grace the stonework, along with odd rings bearing bas-relief images of Christ's face.
The rings flip up, becoming handles to facilitate removing the capstone when another person joins her forebears in the crypt.
The panteón is at once happy, peaceful, pragmatic. I got a warm feeling as Patty and I walked through it on this sunny day. We came to a wall of small graves that I assumed were for cremated remains.
But they don't cremate people here. At least not often. I read the inscriptions on a few plaques. The small graves are not for ashes; they are for infants. So many of them.
The upper grave is for Baby Miguel Angel Olmeda, who lived for six days after his birth in August 1978. The lower is for Valerio Ramos, who was stillborn.
I can accept the end of a long life well lived, and I find comfort in visiting the resting place of one who lived that way. I can sort of handle the death of a young adult victim of a fatal accident, someone who at least got to enjoy growing up. But it was all I could do not to lose it when I realized I was looking at the graves of scores of babies who never got their chance.
Comforting, though, is the thought that these kids are remembered, even thirty years after passing, by their parents, by their siblings; still loved as eternal members of their families.