Funeral and Day of the Dead (from November)

                I found out when I went to help my bakery group make bread.  They still didn’t have a bakery built, since the government is slow to deliver its promises, so we were at one of the women’s houses, luckily only a ten-minute walk from my house.  I arrived late – since the group was formed by a government agency and the women are pretty self-sufficient, my participation with the group has been largely supportive, and as my family’s visit and Christmas draws closer, my motivation has diminished to a minimum – and so the women were already forming the dough into little breads, braids and rolls when I arrived.

                “Se murió el señor,” the group’s president told me – the man had died.  I immediately knew who they were talking about, but she continued.  “Francisco’s dad.”

                For the past month, a man in my community, Sr. Cirilo, had been fighting an uphill battle with stomach cancer.  I had heard little spoken about it, though it was the topic on the back of everyone’s minds.  As a small community, anyone’s business is everyone’s business.  I only knew him a little, but three of his sons were in my elementary school and I knew that Francisco, a sweet but struggling fifth grader, was really attached to him.  He was one of the few fathers who actually showed up to clean the school garden.  He was a short, mild-looking man of about sixty with his right eye missing.  I often saw him walking to work, machete over his shoulder, and he always shook my hand with a warm smile in typical Panamanian greeting fashion.  But as I sat with these women, kneading out bread and placing them on the pan, I learned more about him.  The dead are much more talked about than the living.

                “Not two months ago,” one lady said, “everyone was saying he was the worst man.  Now everyone is saying ‘pobrecito, pobrecito.’  Why bother saying it now, now that he’s dead?”

                “He wasn’t a bad man,” spoke up another woman.  “He worked every day to provide for his woman and children, he just changed when he drank.”

                As it turned out, Sr. Cirilo was quite a violent alcoholic.  His first wife had left him because of the abuse, and his second wife, the one he had been supporting, had moved out so she could lock herself and her sons in the house as needed.  A while back, he lost his right eye to a machete fight with his son, who, they say, was protecting his mother.  The son lost his hand.  Machete fights are not long – a few whacks and then everyone to the hospital.  Of course, he only became violent when he drank, which he did a lot, even when the doctors told him it would make his cancer worse.

“Two months ago, he was the worst man.  When he hit Sra. Chila, everyone said he was the worst man.  Now?  ‘Pobrecito, pobrecito.’  If someone is angry with me in life, let them be angry with me when I’m dead.”

The next day, the whole community waited for the body to return from the morgue in Panama City to have mass and carry the body to the cemetery.  When there was a delay in the delivery, the mass changed from 2pm to 4pm, but most people had already gone to the wife’s house anyway to pray the rosary and wait with his family.  His family is one of the poorer families in the community, so his house was set back in the forest off the main road.  We walked down a grassy road that wove between pastures and fields and under mango, orange and guava trees.  After 5 minutes, there appeared amongst the trees a small hut with adobe walls topped with a penca roof of palm leaves that resembled a bad haircut.  This was the house of Sra. Chila, the mother of Francisco, José, and Juan, the three boys in my elementary school.  Sr. Cirilo’s house was an exact copy, but to get there one had to go down a slick, clay path, cross a creek, and then climb back up the other side.  That is exactly how they had carried Sr. Cirilo’s casket – by hand – so that his spirit could say goodbye to his home. 

By the time I arrived with my host family, the people who had been praying the rosary were crossing the creek with the casket to make the procession to the chapel where the mass would be held.  Everyone loitered around the yard, giving hugs to friends and family they hadn’t seen in a while and chatting about what traditions were customary at the funeral, as if they were exchanging a well-known recipe of arroz con pollo.  Jokes were exchanged, compliments on clothes were given, and slowly we began the return on the grassy path back to the main paved road where everyone climbed into the back of trucks to go to the community chapel.

The mass itself was no different than other masses.  The women and children filled up the benches in the front of the one-room chapel, while the men either sat in the back or waited outside leaning against the sides of their cars.  The casket sat in the middle of the aisle, a plain brown box with four decorated iron handles resting on two small benches, guarded by four candles throwing their warm yellow glow at the wooden sides.    There were the Hail Mary’s, Our Father’s and Praise Be To God’s.  The priest spoke about Eternal Life, God’s Mercy and God’s Will.  He gave out the soft round wafers during communion, which only a fourth of the congregation received.  The day was overcast, hot and still, and as I sat crammed onto the bench in that tiny church, I passed most the time waiting for the fan to blow some air in my direction.  Eventually, we all poured from the small chapel to the line of pickups waiting to transport everyone to the cemetery. 

The last time I had been to the cemetery was the Day of the Dead, at the beginning of November, when all the families attend to the graves of their deceased, cleaning off the crosses, pulling out weeds, dusting off the cloth flowers and lighting candles.  When we arrived for the funeral, those who had people buried here went to their families’ graves in the same fashion, making sure that the graves were tidy and orderly.  Since graves are grouped by families, most families huddled together in their respective lots and watched from afar as Sr. Cirilo’s casket was prayed over, sprinkled with holy water, and lowered into the ground surrounded by his huddled grieving family.  I do not know how long they stayed, but I left with my host family shortly after.  Now, once a month for the following year, people gather together in Sr. Cirilo’s house to pray the rosary on the day of his death, the 28^th of each month.  At one year, there will be a mass, and then the family can finally let go and move on.