Day of the Dead

"Dia de Los Muertos", the Spanish name it. Eve of All Saints, saw we of the church of blessed assurance of an observance ushering in fall while easing our multilingual obsession with death. The sun shines on unmarked graves, and, "Come winter the same snow falls, dusting us all," so it is said, and so honored at The Dollar Tree Store. Weeks before Halloween, when punctilious roadside tents fill with demonic orange grins, when what the French call The Season of Color with its 'sturm und drang' roars in, I push past the doors of The Dollar Tree. No automatic entry ushers us in, no Pearly Gates swing wide to celestial Muzak. We come to purchase the needs of the living-- tinfoil, plastic bags, detergent: a limpid purple liquid with its cautionary "Do Not Drink," its "Fragrancia Duradera." Longevity, one dollar a bottle. Shelves of seasonal gimcracks stack up at the entrance. "Adornes" in your face, useless for extending time: crows with real feathers, spectral spider webs, glittery black skulls, mockup tombstones inscribed "Rest in Pieces"--Do Not Disturb-- Don't Laugh, You're Next. I laugh, anyway. Comics know reality is funny. All Hallows Eve a year ago, our parish priest stood in cemetery darkness at a rude stone altar, celebrating Mass at Bosque Bello, our Beautiful Forest of flashlights and luminaries. There among graves of the known and unknown, we broke bread and shared the cup of blood, there, where the blessed dead settle deep in their shoe-boxes, and the not-yet- unmasked confront certain demise.