Memories of the Dead

This is useless.

He knows too much for his own good. His hollow orbs stuck in the temporary daydream gaze around the crowd, examining their movements, emotions, disrupted far-away chats. A family covering the grave with glowing yellow marigolds, an old grandma lighting up the lone candle in her late husband’s ‘ofrenda’, children joking around with sugar skulls melting in their mouths, the blowing pierced papers hanging on a single string, the skeleton-like makeup, the day he will never understand, Día de Los Muertos, Day of the Dead.

The young boy finds himself standing alone, drifting apart from the rest of the family. He tails around behind the stream of crowds who are busy with all the fancy rituals and meals everywhere. A moment passed, the deafening surroundings managed to get on his nerves. With a piece of sweet conchas bread dangling between his teeth, he makes his way through the mob. Either it’s to regroup with his relatives or escape the blaring resonance, anything seems fine rather than drowning like a lost soul.

The little figure struggles to penetrate through but eventually frees himself from the suffocating area. Breathing the fresh oxygen, slowly but surely, his legs bring him to the isolated worn-out fountain. He settles down and observes his hazy reflection on the murky water, filled with dry scattered leaves. The skull face-painting is smudged, his droopy eyes feel so empty. Bored with the constant expression, he faces back to the distant gatherings. In no time, he’s back to initiate the old habit of analyzing people’s behavior, whatever that is.

Behind the setting sun and orange painted landscape, a group of women snaps a quick selfie, highlighting their colorful hats, a couple of boys fold their enormous kite, tangling themselves in the rope a few times, newly-wed wipes off the dirt from the sturdy cross and photo frames, dancers in traditional clothes on the left, musical crews delivering soft melodies on the right, a fully dressed silhouette approaches him from the front.

A newcomer comfortably sits beside him after cleaning her moldy spot. Two minutes, five minutes, ten minutes go by with only silence between the two. The girl curves a thin smile, dangling her feet heedlessly, opposed to the boy whose biting his bottom lips sort of anxiously for no clear reason. He’s starting to despise the air circulating around them; a fan of peace, not awkwardness. Fighting against his still image, he cracks his throat open, fortunately not letting out a trembling voice.

“What are your thoughts about the dead?”

“Deceased. Someone who’s not a part of our world anymore, well at least physically. What about you?”

“Someone who becomes non-existent. I don’t really have a belief in God and soul. Humans are just mere beings constructed of atoms, molecules, organs, working together to adapt in Earth. Humans are just a better form of evolution than animals, plants, and bacterias. Death is just a statement indicating our physical body can’t support and sustain itself anymore, therefore we become non-existent again, like before being born, am I right?”

“You’re not wrong. So your point is?”

“Those people are wasting time and money for this festival. Why give food to someone who’s not here? Why decorate a home with no one occupying it? Why talk to them if they can’t hear you? Why believe in the existence of the afterlife and eternal sleep if there’s not even a single piece of evidence? Useless.”

“Have you ever watched the movie Coco-“

“Shut up.”

“Not a big fan I see. Did you cry watching it?”

“...No.”

“A liar I see. So what’s your opinion on it?”

“Ridiculous. Plain ridiculous. Souls crossing a bridge to the mortal world and dancing around during this particular day. That’s not happening in real life. People cling on fantasy too much.”

“Have you lost someone important or close in your life?”

“That’s so sudden, an uncle of mine passed away last month. Why?”

“What did you feel back then?”

“Sad of course. What else would I feel? How about you then?”

“Hmm, I don’t know, that’s why I asked. I’m thankful that I’ve never lost someone so dear to me but I never have them in the first place anyway. People to share memories together, people that I can laugh along with together, people to quarrel with. At least now I have a few friends to play around with back at home. How does it feel?”

“Why do you keep on questioning me? This ain’t an interrogation.”

“...”

“Happy, I feel happy, okay? My parents take good care of me, buy me loads of books and comics, treat me breads when I’m whining like a baby. My little brother can be annoying at times, he would blame me to get away with a lollipop, but it’s lonely when he’s not around. My aunt and uncle give me pocket money and bring us to the amusement park during holidays. Now I miss my uncle, great, just great.”

“That’s quite relaxing to hear from a grumpy boy. Why do you miss your uncle?”

“Because he’s not here anymore?”

“You sound so unsure but you’re not wrong, again. You miss spending time with him, you miss making memories with him, either it’s a good or bad one. Yes, he left the world and became non-existent as you mentioned earlier, but that doesn’t mean he’s forgotten. The memories, grumpy boy, the memories keep him ‘alive’.”

“You’re trying hard to prove my point wrong here.”

“You can’t deny that I’m right. Those people and your family are having fun at this festival. They’re appreciating the dead that once is someone who spent memories together. C’mon there’s nothing illegal or criminal activities going on here, you can’t hate on-“

“Who said I’m against them, I just didn’t understand.”

“So now you understand?”

“Maybe.”

“Good. What’s your name?”

“Are you sure you’re not from the CIA or some secretive agencies asking for my personal information?”

“Does a twelve-year-old girl from the orphanage across look like a spy to you? We can be friends, if you want to. Share some memories and bring them down to our grave in the future.”

“That sounds horrifying.”

“...”

“Jorge. Jorge Velázquez Leon. You?”

“Alicia. Alicia Aguilar Valdés.”