The Flowers of Yesterday, the Flowers of Today

I’ve lived in a little rented house in a little neighborhood in a little town in the Central Highlands of Mexico for almost twenty years. Living in a neighborhood for such a long time has allowed me to watch our neighbors' daily habits and routines, and these routines form part of the rhythm of my life.

And, living in one place for a long time, I watch the passing away of these people, these habits, these routines. 

For example, the older couple, pictured above, are my neighbor's parents. (This neighbor is why I'm living in the house I've lived in for the past 17 years, the most stable and beautiful home I’ve ever lived in. More about that later.)

In Mexico, intergenerational families are the norm, not the exception, and these folks live with their son and daughter-in-law next door. They sat on the doorstep of the family home every afternoon. From this spot, they could see all the way down the road.  Whenever she saw me going in or out of my front door, the lady would rise from the stoop, take my hands in hers and say “Dios te bendiga” and kiss me on the cheek. I would, in turn, wish her God’s blessing and kiss her leathery-with-wrinkles-but-still-soft cheek.

Walking up my street and seeing them sitting on the front step was comforting. They were part of the landscape, human and structural, of the area I call home.  

One day, the gentleman passed away. I immediately felt a shift. His wife no longer sat on the doorstep. I still saw her occasionally; she lived a couple more years and was active in her own way, but mostly within the walls of the family home. Sitting on the stoop was apparently something they did together, and after the husband was gone, the wife no longer carried on the tradition. And then, one day, she passed away too; both of their passings are marked by the black ribbons hanging over the door of the family home.

Conversely, my partner and I, with our daily routines, form the landscape of other people’s lives. We are probably seen as "the gringos" on the block, the couple with the six dogs that are walked through the neighborhood on leashes, around sunset every day, the dogs barking their heads off at the roof dogs as we pass by. The couple who carry guitars up and down the hill to gigs. Hopefully, they see us as friendly neighbors, despite our odd "gringo" habits...

I think of humans living among each other as being like flowers in each other’s garden. We’re probably aware of each other’s presence, even though we never speak. And then, one of us passes away, and we’re aware of the absence until the sense of absence fades. After a few years, if we’re lucky, we come across an old photograph, and a flower of yesterday blooms again, only this time, in the heart.