By Mike Bernhardt
Gold Solas Award-winner in the Travel & Healing category
Yellow and orange marigolds blanketed the grave like a delicate golden carpet. Two dozen candles flickered amongst the blooms, pushing away the night and casting a warm glow on the faces of friends and family of the man buried there. They sat graveside drinking mezcal or coffee, sharing memories and singing his favorite ballads. A child clambered onto her smiling mother’s knees.
At that moment—having followed the musky scent of the marigolds like a beacon in the dark— the man’s spirit returned for the evening from the land of the dead. He delighted in the babbling toddler, in the mezcal and food set out for him. His heart was full as he listened to the stories, grateful to be remembered with such love.
My wife Yvonne and I had come to Oaxaca, Mexico for Dia de los Muertos, Day of the Dead. I wanted to see the world-renowned comparsas (parades), the costumed partiers, the decorated graveyards. But I also wanted to learn about the more personal, quiet traditions behind this annual autumn celebration.
It was more than curiosity.
I facilitate grief support groups. In the US, many of us avoid, even fear, conversations about death and grief. We act as if death doesn’t happen. And when it does, we don’t know how to just sit with someone who is grieving deeply. Instead, we offer platitudes or unwanted advice. Or silence. People in my groups often discuss feeling isolated in a brutal new reality that no one else seems to understand.
I’ve also had my own losses. My first wife, Susan, died unexpectedly over thirty years ago. Though my world was shattered, I took comfort in the love we had shared. My feelings were more conflicted after my father passed. Our relationship had been difficult at times and though he’d been gone for years, I was troubled by a lack of closure.
I had read that underneath Oaxaca’s photogenic festivities are rich, centuries-old beliefs and customs concerning death. I wanted to meet someone who would share their traditions with me. Perhaps there was some wisdom I could gain that would help me or the people in my groups.
Yvonne and I rushed down the street after dinner, drawn by the clamor of an approaching comparsa. We joined a crowd lining the sidewalks in Oaxaca’s Centro district. Dozens of raucous brass bands marched by leading fifteen-foot-tall skeletons and rolling, boulder-sized skulls with chattering teeth. Thousands of costumed people moved among them, demons and Las Catrinas who bounced, danced and spun to the blaring music, a colorful, inexhaustible celebration that lasted for over an hour.
After the crowd dispersed, we continued walking, through brightly lit tents jammed with vendors selling souvenirs, past hordes of people buying Oaxacan sorbet or plates of chicken drenched in chocolatey mole negro sauce.
We escaped into a dark, quiet street, empty but for a few people strolling or sitting on benches. At the locked gate of a small hotel, we paused and peeked through the window at a sumptuous ofrenda—an altar—inside. Ofrendas are everywhere during Dia de los Muertos. But this was exceptional: a whole room filled with marigolds, apples, old portraits, skeletons sitting on chairs, and colorful paper banners.
A man in his thirties, named Antonio, appeared inside. “Would you like to come in and take a photo?” He opened the gate and welcomed us in.
“Why do ofrendas always have apples and tangerines?” Yvonne asked. We had read that ofrendas display items the deceased enjoyed, and not everyone likes those fruits. Antonio explained that this ofrenda, like others we’d seen, was created for tourists to appreciate all week. Fruit represents nature’s abundance, and apples and tangerines are durable. He had a second, private ofrenda in his living quarters.
Antonio told us that all ofrendas have marigolds. People believe that their scent and bright colors guide the dead back to their families. Private ofrendas do feature a loved one’s favorite things, along with reminders of one’s personal relationship with them. “It could be food your mother loved to cook for you,” he said, “or a shell from the beach because she loved the ocean.” He pointed at the seated skeletons and continued, “Plain skeletons like these are just skeletons. A skeleton decorated with things that remind us of our loved one brings it to life as that person.”
People in Oaxaca don’t fear death, Antonio said, because they know that it’s part of a cycle: an ending in this world, a new beginning in a different world. Of course, people grieve when a loved one dies, and they depend heavily on their friends and community for emotional support. But their connection to the dead person isn’t broken or irretrievable. “A person isn’t truly gone when we keep them in our heart and remember them with love.”
I rarely remembered my father with such fondness. I had some happy childhood memories, but what I remembered most was his rage, and whippings with a leather strap my parents kept in plain view on a credenza. Yet I’d loved him and I still carried sadness and guilt for things I’d said, or hadn’t been able to say. For the heartfelt father-son talks we never had. For the way he wept after I berated him for childishly arguing with my four-year-old son. For my inability to let go of the past and just love him as he aged and struggled with dementia.
We arrived well before sunset at the cemetery in the town of Xoxocatlán, called Xoxo by locals (pronounced “hoho”). All over the walled grounds, families swept, decorated, and sprinkled graves with marigold blooms and petals. An old man slowly dragged a hand truck loaded with hundreds of flowers. Other people prepared small braziers for burning copal, the sap of the sacred copal tree which creates a thick, pungent smoke for spiritual purification.
Diego, a husky man in his early 30s, greeted us with a smile and an offer of mezcal at the grave of his favorite cousin. A friend of his kneeled on the grave, painstakingly outlining, in black sand, an image of Mictlantecuhtli—the Aztec god of the underworld—speaking with a hummingbird. Hummingbirds are revered in Oaxaca because they carry messages between the lands of the dead and the living.
Over shots poured from a brown, polished bull’s horn fitted with a cork, Diego told us about the first time he’d visited his cousin’s grave. He’d promised that the man’s family would be OK, that he’d always look after them. Suddenly, a hummingbird appeared and hovered right in front of his face! It circled the grave and hovered in front of him again, several more times before vanishing. Diego said he wept, knowing his cousin had sent the hummingbird to say that he was also OK. Today, to honor that experience, Diego asked his artist friend to make the sand painting. It would take four hours to complete.
We met another man who had decorated a grave with colorful balloons. The grave held his nine-year-old brother, who, years before, had been horribly burned in a house fire. In the hospital, his brother’s last words before he died were to ask his parents for a balloon. It was still hard for him to talk about. He had visited the grave every year since—now with his wife and teen-aged son—to bring balloons for his brother. They, like Diego and most other people at Xoxo, would remain until dawn.
Yvonne and I wandered through the candle-lit cemetery. Everywhere, people sat in folding chairs or on the edges of the graves, drinking, talking, cooking on small propane grills. Ranchero music and the scent of copal drifted on the cool night breeze. Yet despite the casual activities, the air felt electric with anticipation. I almost believed that the dead truly were on their way.
A few scattered graves had no flowers, no visitors. Was there no one left alive to remember those people with love, to invite them back for the night? I felt sad to see them alone and forgotten amid so much celebration.
At the grave of a family patriarch, a dozen people, accompanied by guitars, accordion and tuba, sang an old love song—except for one slump-shouldered man who held his face in his hands. A woman, perhaps his wife, caressed his arm. I wondered if it was his father for whom he cried.
When my own father died, Yvonne and our young son accompanied me into the mortuary’s viewing room, where my father lay on a table, dressed in his blue suit. He almost looked like he was sleeping. Almost. I hadn’t expected to feel much but a flood of grief rose up and overwhelmed me. As if I were a little boy again, I cried out “BYE-BYE, DADDY!” and began to sob.
After a few minutes, we left. My father was cremated later that day. We had a “memorial” at my parents’ house but there were no memories, no stories, not much talk about my father at all. He was gone, and that was the end of it.
The day after our visit to Xoxo, we traveled to Teotitlán del Valle, a village outside of Oaxaca known primarily for weaving. But we weren’t there to shop. A man named Armando had brought us and six other visitors to spend the evening with a local family and participate in their Dia de los Muertos traditions. Finding out about the program was a like a dream come true.
We began with a cleansing ritual. I stood in the family’s courtyard with my arms wide open and my eyes closed. A woman circled around me with a brazier full of smoldering copal, embracing me in a dense cloud of fragrant, purifying smoke.
When everyone had been cleansed, we moved into the family’s large dining room. At one end was the ofrenda: a ten-foot-wide brick hearth with a long table in front of it, all blanketed with marigolds, candles, food, and photos of ancestors. On the wall above hung a crucifix and images of Jesus and Our Lady of Guadalupe.
Part of the ofrenda had been left for us to decorate. Armando brought in hundreds of marigolds and chrysanthemums. We pulled the blooms off their stems and filled the empty space. I sprinkled some petals like I’d seen done at Xoxo.
We took our seats at a rustic dining table, placed near the ofrenda so the family could share mealtimes with the dead. We told stories of our loved ones as a way to invite them into the room. I shared a memory of my father and me at Cape Cod when I was eight, digging for clams with our toes at low tide. Yvonne talked about how she and her mother used to fall into uncontrollable laughter together. Then she cried, something she hadn’t done since her mother had died decades before. She wasn’t the only one who shed tears. Everyone commented on the intimacy we felt.
One by one, we placed photos of our dead on the ofrenda and lit candles. I was the last to go. I added a photo of Susan and sent her blessings. Then I tried to place my father’s picture on the ofrenda. For the first time since he’d died, it felt important to truly honor him. But the photo kept falling over and I couldn’t find a stable place where it wasn’t hidden behind flowers or other images.
I told myself that I was taking too long; everyone was waiting to eat a traditional Oaxacan dinner prepared by our hosts. I gave up, frustrated, and left my father’s picture half-standing behind someone else’s best friend. I have a photo of the completed ofrenda but my father isn’t visible in it. Eighteen years after his death, I still couldn’t get things right with him.
Two weeks after we returned home, I spent an evening with some close friends. I had planned to tell them about the beauty of the cemeteries we’d visited and how open people had been with me about their beliefs and culture. Suddenly, I felt a surge of love that brought tears to my eyes. I saw no hummingbirds, but I heard a clear message from my father: I love you. It’s OK. Please don’t feel bad anymore. The regret I’d been carrying for so long simply vanished, replaced with forgiveness for him and for myself.
I’ll be creating an ofrenda for Dia de los Muertos this year, but I’m sure my father won’t follow the scent of marigolds to find it. He grew up in The Bronx, not Mexico. Dad’s beacon in the dark will be the salty, fishy aroma of anchovies on a slice of pepperoni pizza.
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Mike Bernhardt is an eclectic, award-winning writer who loves the water, be it diving coral reefs in Indonesia, swimming with sea lions in the Galápagos, or researching drowned ancestors off the coast of Ireland.