The stench of rotting flesh unearthed and caskets cast aside. Spiderwebcracked glass doors and rusted padlocks let eternity rest. Who comes to care for the remains of loves long lost? Some. Not all.
How many children went hungry so that mausoleums could be built and strangers could admire the colored light of stained glass ceilings reflected upon floors out of reach? Salvation and adoration. What legacy is left in the corners of Cemetario de la Recoleta? What secrets buried.
Look into the life lines of your palm and see ancestors. Strength and sacrifice.
Cats sprawled across certain stones seem to be missing parts of their stomachs and their souls. The vacancy is more frightening than anything else here. Broken drawers reveal open coffins and steps leading to depth. Let them wander.
In circles las Madres de Plaza de Mayo search for their ninos desaparacidos. Many in silence. Simply walking, with white scarves to show resistance to the evil that exists and never can be undone. Tourists gather and flash cameras at their weathered faces and at those of their children, their grandchildren-- at the black and white pictures that the women string from their necks with names and dates written below and the men hold up on picket signs. The prints are old and scarred by the sun and their hands shake under the strain of the banner but still they walk. With respect, with resilience, with reason that we cannot begin to understand only looking on.
Across the busy street lies the body of one man who fought for the freedom of Argentina and carried its flag across the Andes. Two soldiers guard his coffin and four marble maidens. Outside the cathedral a flame burns for his bravery y that of the soldado desconocido de la independencia. Saludalos! the wall tells us.
And thus some lives are revered by all who pass and others by only those with great strength and greater sorrow... but still so many go unnoticed and are truly lost.
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