Mexico doesn’t hide its soul.
It paints it on walls, carves it into sugar, and sings it through trumpets in the night.
I arrived in Oaxaca in late October,
just as marigolds began lining the streets.
The city was preparing —
not for mourning,
but for memory.
Día de Muertos is not a funeral.
It’s a family reunion.
Altars sprang up in doorways and plazas.
Candles flickered beside framed photographs.
Pan de muerto filled the air with orange blossom and spice.
I wandered a cemetery at midnight.
Families gathered, not to cry —
but to laugh, to eat, to remember.
A woman handed me tamales
and pointed to a photo of her grandmother.
“She’s here,” she said, smiling.
The living and the dead sat side by side,
as if time had kindly paused.
Earlier that day, I joined a mask-making workshop.
My papel picado design tore,
but the teacher said, “Perfect. Spirits love flaws.”
In the market, I bought mole negro thicker than night.
Maize in all colors lined the stalls —
blue, red, golden like fire.
Mexico doesn’t treat corn as food.
It treats it as origin.
I opened 온라인카지노 in a café near Santo Domingo.
But after one glance, I closed it.
This was a day for stories, not stats.
Later, a parade swept through the streets.
Skulls painted, costumes glowing, music roaring.
Kids danced with candles.
Grandmothers waved from balconies.
And I let it all soak into my skin.
Before bed, I checked 카지노사이트 once more.
Sent a single word to a friend:
“Alive.”
Because that’s what Mexico taught me.
That remembrance is a form of celebration.
And joy?
A bridge between the worlds.