Death. It's Different Here.

And I am always learning, always healing.

I had noticed that the town’s main road was closed and had seen the white canopies set up in the middle of the street.

Someone must have died, I thought.

It’s different here when someone dies.

A few days ago I had made a left turn on on a small road only to run head-on into a procession of people slowly walking behind a car on their way to the cemetery. Then too, someone had died and the people who loved him/her were walking him/her to his body’s forever home. I had put my car in reverse and found another way through the steep cobblestone street.

When someone dies here, we stop. Street, work, whatever. For a time, it is all about gathering in community, celebrating, honoring. For days.

This is very different from the awkward way death had been introduced to me as a child, ie: we don’t talk much about it and whatever needs to happen, we do it quickly. I still ache remembering how sadly quickly my sister and I handled my mom’s passing. And when my dad and grandma had died, years before all I got was a phone call and a “life goes on.” Like I said, different.

So when I saw the white canopies, I knew someone else had died. I wondered who it was. Living in a small village means less anonymity, in life and in death. Surprisingly, I find that there’s something reassuringly intimate about that.

The next day my friend tells me that she can only be at my house for a short while, because she is going to Mass at 3 o’clock, Doña Lupe’s Mass.

Doña Lupe. My heart squeezes a little bit. Doña Lupe from the papeleria is gone. Many times as I was buying an envelope, a single needle, or a couple of markers, Doña Lupe had been sitting in the small store, on the other side of the baby gate that was likely set up during the pandemic, calling her daughter from the back whenever a customer showed up.

When I had asked to take a photo to paint their portrait last year, she had been gracious, waiting for me to get the right angle that would show all of the treasures behind them. Small toys, colored paper, birthday banners. They had made sure their pup was part of the photo, too. That day, her daughter had explained to me how her mama had started the store, decades ago. How for a while they carried clothing, too. I heard her pride in the way she told the story and Doña Lupe had nodded. One day, as I wanted to buy a can of paint, I was allowed behind the baby gate to pick my color and that felt pretty special.

So yeah, I felt a squeeze. The squeeze that says “never again,” the squeeze that knows that hearts are hurting.

I remembered that on a shelf in my studio was the portrait I had made of her family and I knew right away that I wanted to give it to them that day.

But how would I get it there? Being always aware of my “uninvited guest” status, I sure didn’t want to infringe. I thought about asking my friend to bring it and then quickly knew that no, I needed to get past my own stories and get myself over there like a grown-up. Get me over there and transcend whatever weirdness and separatedness I had learned early on. In a way, press a reset button and trade an early way of doing things for one that is much more congruent with who I am naturally. I love honoring, celebrating, and moving slowly around things that matter. Death matters. And also death does not scare me.

So I picked up the portrait and I went. I parked my car a few blocks away and walked toward the white canopies that were unapologetically blocking the town’s main street.

People were sitting on folding chairs, I recognized a few of them. They were facing the building where Doña Lupe had created her store decades ago, where her daughter and granddaughter worked, and where she had provided the village with many things necessary for everyday life. When one needs a needle to mend something, being able to buy one without having to get on a bus is a big deal. A big contribution.

Across from the rows of chairs, inside what might normally be a carport, I saw a long table with lots of flowers and several people sitting together. I approached, the painted side of the portrait facing my body, not sure what to do next.

Sure, I live here and have a for a few years now, but still.

I stood and waited, aware of eyes on me, trusting that I was being guided. After a short time that felt like a long time, a woman with a face that had to have come from Doña Lupe’s genes made eye contact with me and I let out the breath I didn’t know I had been holding. A silent question in her eyes, a gentle question. I answered it by turning the portrait around and saying that I had brought this gift and would like to leave it. She smiled, got up and walked around the table then took my hand and said: Come with me, you have to give to her yourself.

For a quick instant, I was confused. Did I misunderstand?

She led me through an outdoor hallway full of flowers and walked me into a dark room with even more flowers. There she let go of my hand, nodded towards the center of the room, and quietly said: Go ahead, give it to her.

Oh.

In the middle of the roses, in the middle of people I could now see were the very close family, in what suddenly felt more like a womb than a room, was Doña Lupe, lying in her coffin. Only now do I realize that I had been welcomed into a very, very special place. It didn’t matter that my passport was French, or that I wasn’t sure what to do next. I was welcome.

So I took a few steps, stood right by Doña Lupe’s beautiful, peaceful face, and in my heart I told her that I had brought her a gift, that I hoped she liked it and also, thank you for letting me in behind the baby gate that day. I was still holding the portrait and was not even wondering what to do with it.

A minute passed and her daughter took the painting from me and placed it on the edge of the coffin, directly facing Doña Lupe. Then her other daughter was behind me, the one who works at the store, and even though I could tell her heart was broken, she hugged me and thanked me. Then her granddaughter hugged me too and then well, I thanked them and I walked myself out through the roses and the table and past the canopies. Before I left I heard the words: I tell you what, my mom is very happy here today.

It took me several minutes of walking through town and meeting some friends for lunch to come back to reality and now, a few days later, I am still processing it all.

Mama Mexico is teaching me, healing me. An ongoing exchange of gifts, not always obvious but always profound.

Thank you Doña Lupe. Decansa en paz.