Our dead are never dead to us, until we have forgotten them. - George Eliot
It was October 31.
With candles, shears, a bucket, and rags in tow, Mum and I were plowing through the crowd, walking the rest of the way to Cementerio del Norte (North Cemetery) from Bonifacio Avenue.
Our yearly pilgrimage.
We were visiting Lolo Gorio and Lola Maria's gravesite to pull perimeter weeds and get the tombs clean and ready for Undas (All Saints' Day). Celebrated on November 1, it was a day to remember and to pay respect to loved ones who had passed away.
Truth.
I didn't enjoy yanking weeds. I used to dread it. There were times when I would mumble in secret protest. Until...
Until Mum promised that afterward, she was going to buy me a bag of boiled peanuts. Perhaps a bunch of lanzones? (Aside: I was easy. I'd do anything for food.)
So from then on, I had looked forward to our visit.
As I surveyed the scene, I mentally conjured a progress report and this was what it said.
Personality? B.
Kind of pitiful.
And sad.
The colorful coleus shrub bordering the gravesite was lonely and looked like a teenager who needed a haircut.
Behavior? B.
It was a little sassy and I caught it inviting some rotting kalachuchi petals and random cobwebs to a sleepover. And partying with foot-high weeds of rice. The tombs were dirty and brown. They needed help. They needed a makeover.
Potential? A+.
The plot really wanted to get its grade up.
And that said, Mum and I joined the other folks around who were already in the midst of cleaning their respective site. We tugged and heaved. And clipped. And scrubbed. And polished.
It was already dark when we finished. As a farewell gesture, we set up and lit candles on each corner of the tombstones making them gleam like blanched, weathered bones.
There was only stillness.
And the silence of death.
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