El Dia de los Difuntos

R. came to get us around eleven, and I helped la abuelita strap the basket of bread to her back. I said I could carry it, but she waved me off like I was crazy. We had spent all day Sunday making this bread, different women of the family wandering in and out to help. There was a lot of gossip that flew over my Spanish speaking abilities, although some of it was in Quechua, so I didn’t feel so bad. As the grandma indicated for me what to do and was visibly perturbed by the fact that I didn’t know already, I was reminded of the moment in which after I had asked a million questions about the bread, its purpose, its tradition, she had said something in Quechua to her daughter. R. tsked her, saying “Mami. She is from another country, they have different customs.” Luckily this amused me, as there are moments here when it may have made me cry to think my elder thought I was maleducado. Bread successfully tied to grandma’s back, we began our slow walk to the cemetery. On our way we passed many people coming or going. We turned up a dirt road that was new to me. More people. We saw our favorite tienda owner who greeted us by name and was pleased that Cameron offered her “Un beso de amistaad.” Booths of food lined the entrance to the cemetery, and we ran into a niece buying snails to eat. We passed through the gate, giving money to enter, and followed R. past groups of families around graves- some singing, some hanging out chatting, kids running, some praying, all decorating and cleaning the graves of their ancestors. We arrived at the grave of El abuelo, and the family was all sitting on it eating snails and fruit. Every now and them someone would offer grandpa something to eat. M. tied on a picture of Jesus, a card from one of his grandchildren, other baubles, and flowers were arranged. We took turns cleaning the grass and weeds away, and then people came by to offer hail Marys and Our fathers for the souls of the dead, for which they received bread and a banana. One young man who had a very nice clear voice was asked to pray many times, as D. and R. began listing off the names of the deceased in their family. In this manner I discovered that M., with whom I work at the library, was not the first from her mother. The first daughter died. I wish this holiday existed in the north, for so often when the dead are gone they are gone, and we remember them as a whole in our hearts or not at all. Grandma did not come to lunch. Although she did not appear distraught, el abuelo was her husband, and it has only been five years since he died. I watched her take a short cut through a field, climbing under a fence and jumping a creek. She is a strong woman for 83.