For Sean, who loved it as much as I did.
Necropolis de Cristobal Colon: established in 1876, now with more than one million corpses occupying 800,000 graves, spread over 140 acres (57 ha).
Review: you should go. Repeatedly.
I love cemeteries. I love everything about them. This particular cemetery, partly kept-up, largely falling apart, Communist-era monuments built around/upon Imperialist ones—emptied crypts—graves of martyrs—repatriated bones and excavated coffins—it’s just filthy with history and I wallow in it.
Can’t help myself; inflict some of the history—Cuba and Havana’s beauty, drama, tragedy—on the children.
They don’t appreciate it.
Cinder: “Trust Mom to make a fun trip to a cemetery depressing.”
Flora: “Don’t listen. Do what I do. Nod, smile every once in a while, and keep on looking for headless angels.”
why I’m going to hell
I am raising irreligious children on purpose: if they ever decide to find god(s), religion, dogma, idealogy, I want them to do it as thinking, resilient adults and not impressionable, malleable “I’ll believe what you tell me because you are big and I am little” larval humans. I am doing this on purpose.
Sometimes, I forget… that what I’m doing leaves certain… shall we say… holes in their cultural education.
Ender: “Ugh, Mom, look, there’s an ugly skinny man hanging on that lamp post. And one over there. Why is that?”
Flora: “God, Ender, don’t you know anything? That’s Jesus Christ. And he’s sort of a zombie—he died but then came back to life… Mom explained it to me once.”
(Yes. I know what it looks like. Why do you think Cinder took the photo?)
As we pass a grave surrounded by a swarm of flies:
Cinder: “Well, somebody wasn’t cremated…”
LANDED here for the first time? Let me catch you up:
And if you like what you read/hear/see, please consider expressing your delight by making a contribution:
Jane: Because you’ve always wanted to be a patron of the arts, and you know that artists can’t pay for groceries with exposure.
You: How much?
Jane: Buy me a cup of coffee, a Cuba Libre, or a Cuban cigar.
You: That’s all?
Jane: My avarice is happy to match your affluence. But I get $1 in royalties for each copy my other self sells of a traditionally published book. It is impossible to disappoint me.
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