Black

Tactic has been unusually sunny over the past week, but today the sky opened up and let forth a torrential downpour. It is fitting that the day has been gray, dreary, and cold. Mynor died early this afternoon.

I was in Cobán turning in some paperwork for Nu’Kem when I got the news. Mynor was having difficulty in breathing since he woke this morning and just a few minutes after noon he took his last gasp. I quickly finished my errands and headed back to Tactic.

Dripping wet, I arrived at Aura’s house at little after one. Mynor’s tiny casket was set on a wooden table in the middle of the room. Carlos and some other male relatives had hung a white sheet on the wall behind the casket and were in the process of decorating it with little fern branches and flowers they had collected from outside the house. A circle of chairs was placed around the room ready to welcome the mourners.

I presented Aura and Carlos with the best thing I could think to give them. From a waterproof bag I took out four photos I had taken of Mynor and the two of them the day before. Their reaction was like I had given them a block of gold. Babies die in the poorest countries of the world everyday never leaving any proof of their short existence—their reminiscences live on only in the memory of their parents and family. But here Aura and Carlos have pictures to serve as a reminder of their little baby long after their mental images fade.

I have learned the importance of just being present, and even though I didn’t understand any of the conversations taking place in Poqomchi’, I stayed at Aura’s house for the majority of the afternoon. Every time a group of family members, friends, or neighbors came to the house, Carlos would go over to the dresser, carefully unwrap the photos and show them to the new guests. Upon seeing the pictures, Aura’s mother started crying—the only tears, besides my own, that I saw shed in the house. A tragic premature death is no novelty in Guatemala, and although a deep sadness and loss hung over the house those emotions were not expressed outwardly.

Mynor lived for only 13 days, but in that short amount of time he touched a lot of lives, especially my own. He didn’t live long enough to get his surgery, but long enough to impact me for the rest of my life. Mynor died as a result of poverty. Babies die all the time because of poverty. I hope Mynor’s death and the memory of him will serve as a reminder to those of us fortunate enough to have been born in wealthy nations of the struggles the majority of the people in the world face. We are more privileged than we will ever fully know or appreciate.