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November in Mexico often brought with it clear, starry skies and mild weather. The night of Dia de los Muertos promised nothing less for the people of Nuevo Paraíso.
Smiles and warm memories accompanied the crunching of worn shoes as the community’s modest graveyard filled with families, each carrying favourite foods and items for their dearly departed.
Candle light glowed warmly all around, guiding Javier’s sister through the deepening twilight as she walked alongside her husband and four year old son. His tiny hands clutched the wild marigolds he’d chosen himself.
Javier’s sister held in her arms a basket of pan de muerto, made with love using her family’s own recipe. She hoped dearly, as she did every year since her passing, that her mother would approve of the job she’d done, never having been as fine a baker as she was.
With a sad sigh, she hugged the basket a little closer to her chest. She’d brought some for Javier too.
She looked down at her son walking proudly beside her. He noticed and smiled, his smile mimicking that of his uncle, and she smiled too, and her eyes grew moist. Her son’s expression fell.
“Mama, are you okay?” He asked, concerned.
“Yes mi vida, I am, don't worry.” She assured him as she wiped her eyes and knelt down at her mother's grave. Placing the bread on the small ofrenda there, she explained, "today is a happy day, but it's sad too. While we honor our loved ones, we feel whatever we need to." Her son's small face scrunched as he considered his mother's words.
"Oh… Mama, I'm happy about the food! Is that okay?"
She laughed and brushed the dark hair from his sweet face. “Yes, that's okay. Place your flowers here, your abuela would love to see them,” she said with a warm smile.
Her son nodded with a look of concentration as he selected a flower and stared at it, “Mama?” He asked.
“Yes baby?”
“Is uncle Javier with Abuela too?”
His words caused her smile to falter, sadness and uncertainty tugged at her chest.
She had taught her son about death in the way a four year old could comprehend: he knew the chickens they ate died, that his abuela had died, but she’d only told him that her brother, his uncle Javier, was no longer there.
She placed a loving hand on his back and answered honestly.
“I don’t know. But if he is… we’ll show him the way home.”