We took a long, slow walk through the municipal cemetery of Punta Arenas on a Sunday afternoon. The light was perfect and the textures, crucifixes, depths and colours came together like odds stacked in something else’s favour.
A cemetery is a somber thing, especially those small graves, or the ones now shared by married folk. The ones with the photographs of the dead and gone. Some of the graves are elaborately decorated, some are on prime property, well looked after; others are small and simple and almost overgrown, discreetly decaying in a corner. A few were both humble and immaculate; a lack of money does not equal a lack of self respect.
The teenager sobbing over a tiny grave until his father leads him away by the elbow.