Mourning

Mynor’s funeral was this afternoon. I had never attended a Guatemalan funeral before, although I have seen many. The cemetery in Tactic straddles the only road in and out of town. It is the custom here for the mourners to walk from the house of the deceased to the cemetery in a group with the body. The processions often block the highway, and the micro drivers pull over to the side of the road and turn off their music in respect for the dead. Although I had never intimately known anyone who had died here, I always felt a deep sadness upon seeing these solemn gatherings. Now I know the sadness that arises from participating in one of these processions is infinitely more profound than simply watching one pass.

I went out to Aura’s house a little past noon. People were gathered inside sharing a meal of saq’ik and tamilitos that neighbors had prepared. I was served my portion and sat down next to some other Nu’Kem weavers: Beti, Estela, and Lucia. The atmosphere was both solemn and light. There was an underlying sadness, but people were engaged in conversations about other things. I chatted with the weavers about our big Cemaco order. With a forced smile, Aura said she needed some thread so she could start working again. I replied with my own forced smile that we would get her all the thread she wanted when she was ready. Maybe having something to keep her busy would be good for her.

Mynor’s little casket had a plastic bowl set on top of it. As mourners entered the house, they would go over to the bowl and place in it whatever they could afford—10Q, 5Q, 50 centavos—to help the family with the costs of the coffin and the funeral. One little old woman came in, dropped 25 centavos in the bowl, sat down in a chair, and broke down into tears. Her son had just died earlier today in a motorcycle accident and her granddaughter was in the hospital. People went to her side to comfort her. There will be another funeral in Chijacorral soon. It seems like life here is just a succession of deaths and burials.

The service began around 2:00 P.M. The pastor from Aura and Carlos’ church shared some words while other members of the congregation later led the gathering in the singing of some hymns. The composure Aura had displayed throughout the dramatic unfolding of Mynor’s birth and eventual death finally gave way, and she was too distraught to participate in the service. Her sobs rose from the kitchen partitioned off by a sheet while the rest of us sang.

There is nothing more heartbreaking than a tiny casket. A tiny casket signifies a life that was much too short. The assistant pastor put Mynor’s tiny casket on one shoulder, and we accompanied him in the walk to the cemetery. Carlos and the pastor led the way, followed by children carrying flowers, Mynor’s body, and then the group of mourners. Our number grew walking down the hill out of Chijacorral as other community members joined the assembly. Aura could not bear to see her baby being put in a grave and therefore stayed at home.

Seeing the young children in the procession, some of them Mynor’s brothers and sisters, made me mourn for the loss, or more accurate, the lack of their childhood. From having to care for younger siblings, taking on jobs to provide extra income for the family, and constantly being reminded of the harshness of life—namely poverty and death—I don’t know there is even such a thing as childhood here.

Tactic’s cemetery is composed of two sides: one to the south of the main road is clean and the other to the north is situated right next to the city dump and is filled with trash. Mynor was buried on the north side.

The poorest people here are buried in the ground in unmarked graves, while those who are better off have small simple concrete mausoleums. Aura and Carlos could not afford to have a mausoleum, but the pastor of their church was kind enough to offer space for Mynor in his.

The crowd made its way over to the mausoleum walking over and on unmarked graves and through piles of trash. Another church member was just finishing chipping out a hole in the concrete large enough in which to slide in the coffin. There was already another tiny casket inside. It belonged to the pastor’s baby girl. As trucks deposited more trash in the dump and vultures circled overhead, the pastor spoke a few last words and then slid Mynor’s casket into the mausoleum next to the other one.

I left with Estela as they were concreting the mausoleum shut. I had been crying a lot all day, and I still was. Estela’s son looked up at me with a smile and took my hand in his. We walked that way, hand-in-hand, back to Aura’s house. I had never before received comfort from a child—a child, who at seven years, has probably endured more hardship and seen more tragedies than I will in my whole life.