El Dia De Los Muertos
written by: Mari-Carmen Marin
@MariCar04410238
Fresh loaves of pan de muerto sit on the shelves and big
baskets sit on the floor of my bakery, some decorated with
bones out of dough, others arranged as if skulls. As Posada
once said, “todos somos calaveras,” we will end up without
flesh, only bones. Eggs, flour, yeast, sugar, a dash of anise,
is all that it takes to raise up the dead in the oven.
I’ve prepared my altar at home: a picture of abuela Lupe,
abuelo Joaquín, tío Favio, tía Marta, without forgetting
my precious dog Ollie, all standing next to flickering
candles and around marigold petals which are scattered
to guide them away from their gravesites each year on
the first two days of November.
I must lay out the ofrendas. I will place jars of water to
quench their thirst after their long journeys, loaves of my
best pan de muerto to dunk into hot chocolate, mezcal and
pulque for the men, atole, mole negro, and all kinds of fruit.
I will sit in the middle, wearing my smock on top of my shirt,
the big breadbasket covered in a white cloth upside down on
my head, to look like a calavera, and we will dine together.
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:
This poem is inspired by Octavio Ocampo’s painting “Skull.”
- La Noche De Reyes Minus The Night - January 5, 2023
- El Dia De Los Muertos - November 1, 2020
