“First Death”

O, vanity!
Death waits at the door.
See! our friends are all forsaking
The wine and the merrymaking.
We are called – we must go.
Laid low, very low,
In the dark we must lie.
The merry glees are still;
The voice of the bird
Shall no more be heard,
Nor the wind on the hill.                       Tennyson

The penetrating smell of incense and moss overwhelmed the scent of hundreds of flowers in the chapel. I was dressed in full Sunday best despite being the middle of the week. The white lace gloves were particularly a nuisance since I could not properly remove my bangs from my forehead. I hated hair on my face but my mom thought I looked like a doll. I heard violins being tuned up in the background and noticed many musicians dressed in black. Otherwise, the chapel was almost empty, we were early, I suppose.

I never really knew who Sabaas was, or how he fit in my life, but today I was attending his funeral. At five, little did I know about life, even less about death. I momentaneously strayed away from my mother’s grip while she was consoling the widow and walked towards the front of the chapel to find a group of pallbearers leaning over an open wooden casket on the floor. Nobody seemed to notice me. I stood next to them and stared down at the face of a dead man, I was in awe. As the mass progressed, the music of  “El Mariachi Vargas”, the most prestigious and famous Mariachi in Mexico, played heartfelt tunes to set a morose mood. This was a true privilege since they played mostly for statesmen, big concert halls and toured abroad, but the widow was a dear friend of the founder of the band. The women cried as the violins wept,  and the men spoke about the untimely death of this great man who had become a success story.

After the ceremony we all went home. As my father concentrated on driving, my mom kept venting her anger at a couple of men who got too chummy and were overly accommodating with the gorgeous widow. My dad smiled and placed a verbal bet on who he thought would end up getting her:

- “Don Silvestre Vargas, he will get her”- he stated.

Don Silvestre was the owner and main violinist in the infamous Mariachi group. My mother stared at him in terror and sighed in disgust. I was too young and naïve to be shocked by the conversation or the sight of a dead man, it was mainly curiosity at its best that filled my spirit. I had no notion that death meant separation forever.

A couple of years later, the penetrating smell of incense and moss still overwhelmed the scent of hundreds of flowers in the same chapel. I was again dressed in full Sunday best, but this time, it was indeed Sunday night. The white lace gloves were particularly a nuisance once more since I could not properly avoid my bangs from prickling at my eyeballs and now, they were also too small and did not fit properly on my outgrown podgy hands. She knew I hated bangs but my mom insisted they made me look sooooo beautiful (sigh!).  Once again the “Mariachi Vargas” band rehearsed in full formal garb, fine white suits embroidered with silver thread and buttons made of mother of pearl. It was joyous music this time, the tone had been set, and a merry celebration was at hand. The chapel was almost empty, we were early, I know, but I had to practise my graceful march to the altar in front of the bride. I was a flower girl; it was the wedding of Sabaas´s widow and Silvestre Vargas. 

My dad had won the bet.

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