The Day of the Dead. The cemeteries were crowded.
Multitudes were mourning their deads, but the deads mourned no one.
In front of her husband’sgrave, Beatriz and her son stood reverently. They brought a bouquet of flowers and wore black clothes.
With no warning, Beatriz started to cry, hitting her fist against her chest, lamenting.
“Don’t be sad, mommy.” The son brought her closer to him.
“I’m not sad, son. I just don’t want others to think I’m a bad widow.”