Then there are the other photographs, and a creeping feeling of dread rouses from somewhere deep in my gut as I examine the one face I don’t know among the other Navarros. Except…he isn’t entirely unfamiliar. I see glimpses of Lenore and Hector in his features, and Damian’s mischievous nature reflected in his toothy smile. If Damian wasn’t also present in the pictures, I might assume I was looking at a younger version of him, but he’s also there in every image—as the teenager I never knew.
My mouth goes desert dry as I stare at the little boy’s grinning face.
The little boy who isn’t Damian.
“This is the ofrenda your abuela mentioned, right?” I force myself to ask to fill the silence, though it’s another question altogether that beats against the inside of my skull. “And it’s like…an altar?”
Damian nods. “Every ofrenda is different, but they typically all have pictures, candles, mementos, food. In the case of my abuelo, we put out things like pan de muerto, tamales, atole. Basically, all his favorite stuff. As you probably remember fromCoco”—he shoots me an amused smile—“during Día de los Muertos, the veil between the living and the dead is temporarily lifted, which means it’s the one time of year when we can reunitewith our deceased loved ones. This”—he waves a hand toward the ofrenda—“is meant to guide their spirits back to us.”
I once again take in all the plates of food cluttering the two round tables on the sides of the shrine.
“So…the food is an offering.” It isn’t a question so much as a confirmation, to help me understand his culture and the significance behind this holiday that is clearly a monumental part of their lives. Especially if they would travel so far for such a brief time just to pay their respects.
“Right. Buñuelos”—I follow Damian’s gaze to the plate he just set down a few moments ago—“were my abuelo’s favorite treat. If he does come back to us, I guarantee it’s for these.”
My focus shifts to the pictures atop the ofrenda once more—to the smiling face of the Damian in those photos. To the kind face of his grandfather. And to the face of that young boy, notably missing among the still living Navarros.
That feeling of dread intensifies, and I blink up at Damian, my heart aching with the weight of that unspoken question. A question I can’t bring myself to ask.
So, instead, I say, “And you do this every year?”
Damian considers his next words carefully, his expression drawn. “Growing up, we celebrated in Newport, but that was before my abuelo died and my abuela moved back to Guadalajara, since this is where they both grew up, met, and got married, and she wanted to spend her remaining days close to where he’s buried. Now, we split the celebration between the two places.”
I don’t ask how his grandfather died or when; judging from the photographs, the most recent of them pegs Damian around the age of sixteen. A hard age to deal with such a profound loss.
Not much younger than I was when my mom got diagnosed,I realize.
That thought rams into me like a truck, and I find myself not quite sure what to do with it—this notion that he’s experienced a significant trauma that’s possibly shaped him just as my own experiences have shaped me. It was always so easy to discount Damian as just another player, a fuckboy, a rich asshole with nothing to lose because everything and anyone could be bought.
But now, I’m starting to see that’s not true.
After all, even wealth can’t buy your way out of death.
My chest tightens, and moisture pricks at my eyes as I stare at the ofrenda with a newfound appreciation and respect. I’m lucky—my mom is still here, still alive. But something about seeing this, something about what Damian’s told me about this holiday…it brings me some semblance of peace knowing there are people out there who strongly believe that death is not the end. I only hope they’re right.
“It’s beautiful…the idea that the dead don’t really leave us.”
Damian exhales a breath that sounds eerily close to a scoff, and when I peer up at him, I’m startled by the devastated expression marring his handsome features. He shakes his head, not meeting my gaze.
“If only it was true.” Then he turns away from the ofrenda and walks off without looking back.
We spend the next several hours at the Panteón de Mezquitán, a historic cemetery in Guadalajara about twenty minutes from Lucia’s house, visiting the grave of Damian’s abuelo. Like with his grandfather’s ofrenda, the cemetery is splashed in countless colors, with more of those intricately cut flags hanging between the mausoleums and headstones, as well as sugar skulldecorations, and orange marigolds (cempasúchil as Damian calls them, or flor de muerto—flower of the dead) and red cockscombs in such abundance that there must be millions of flowers in this one location alone.
Though I feel out of place, Damian’s abuela is kind and guides me through the process of cleaning her husband’s grave and decorating it with candles, framed photographs, and personal mementos—much like his ofrenda at her home. Damian and his father both help as well, with Lenore quietly standing to the side and carefully arranging the bouquets we set down in front of the headstone. Once the decorations are finished, and offerings have been placed, I listen in respectful silence as Lucia, Hector, and Damian each pray and pay homage to his abuelo. Then, for a while, we just enjoy the warm afternoon—and later, evening—air, the glow of the flickering candles around us, and the traditional music that can be heard playing nearby, all of it adding to the spiritual atmosphere pervading the cemetery.
None of the Navarros really speak during those hours, not even once we return to Lucia’s home and sit down to eat dinner. On several occasions, I’m tempted to break the hush, if only to tell Lucia howincredibleher cooking is, but I hold my tongue…and the moan that nearly escapes at the bold diversity of flavor bursting across my palate. There are so many foods I’ve never even heard of, let alone tried before (my knowledge of Mexican cuisine has always been mostly limited to tacos), and I can’t get it all on my plate fast enough. Lucia seems pleased by my appetite, grinning at me occasionally across the table. A few times, I notice Damian watching me, too, though I can’t quite discern his expression.
It’s late by the time we finish dinner, and after, we all work together to tidy the kitchen in that persistent, near-painful silence. Once we’re done, Damian’s parents inform us thatthey’re going to return to the cemetery for another hour or two, bidding us all goodnight before Damian or Lucia even have a chance to respond. As they leave, I don’t miss the curious way Hector looks at me, like he’s trying to make up his mind about something, but the glance is so fleeting I can’t be entirely sure I didn’t imagine it.
Hector and Lenore’s departure doesn’t seem to surprise Lucia, who simply smiles at me with that same genuine kindness she’s been graciously bestowing upon me all day.
“You’ll forgive this old lady for turning in early, but these bones aren’t what they used to be…and I’d like some time alone. Damian will show you to your room. Thank you for coming today.”
A lump rises in my throat as I squeeze her proffered hand. “Thank you for having me.”
Shifting her attention to Damian, Lucia grabs his face and pulls him down so she can kiss his cheek. “Buenas noches, mi cielo,” she murmurs.
“Goodnight to you, too, abuelita,” he whispers, his lips set in a soft, affectionate grin that’s so unlike him and so heartwarmingly tender that it makes my own heart skip.
