There are very few days in El Salvador that are really embraced and celebrated, compared to in a country like the states that has a celebration two days out of seven. Many casual conversations between Americans often involve the weekend, somehow. It’s either: “How was your weekend?” or “Hey, half way to the weekend” or “what will you do this weekend?” Here, I NEVER hear people talk about the weekend. Students don’t wait impatiently for Friday, nor workers or anyone else, at least not where I live.
But today, today is a big deal. It’s the “Day of the deceased.” I know that it sounds dark or sad. It’s not. I woke up this morning and, exiting my house to buy an egg for my egg sandwich breakfast (YUM), I immediately felt a pleasant energy in the neighborhood. Though it was early, there were already people headed past my house to the cemetery. All smiling, many carrying plastic bouquets or other things to decorate the graves. Wearing bright colors, they said hello as they past my house. I stood in the street and watched for 5 minutes. There aren’t many days like this. It warms me so.
I ate, washed, and put on a bright blue shirt. I walked down to the southern edge of town, not quite to the cemetery, and entered an area where families from my neighborhood and others had set up crude booths to sell food and hot chocolate and coffee. Normally a fast walker, I strolled deliberately among the bustle, stopping to shake hands or make a funny face.
And then the emotion, that terribly sad and yet warming sensation of seeing a family crying and embracing and laughing at the graves of family members. Children running around. Siblings holding each other. Last year at this same event, I was still an outsider, and I longed to be among my own family. This year, it was different. I could openly approach any group of people, and was well received and told stories of fathers long dead and husbands still missed. Hearing my name called by different voices, seeing warmth in people’s eyes. It makes it all worth it.