Passing through doors on way to pay respects, we were greeted by a sunny, sultry, late summer morning.  Our destination was less than two miles from work’s lot and given we allowed ample time and given the end of our short journey was to be a somber affair, we walked slowly to vehicle.  I drove and my colleague occupied front passenger seat.  We remembered to don masks and lower windows to protect against an adversary we couldn’t see.

We passed through gate as we pulled away from company property and meandered the streets of the small town which had seen its better day.  A right here and left there and we were on road bordering cemetery.  I slowed to a stop and we stepped onto a graveled surface.  In the distance we could see a canopy covering a small group of attendees.  As we walked, I considered graves and took note of names, dates of birth and death, and as I always do when studying stone markers, wondered what life had been like for those who had now transitioned to what lies next.

We arrived at grave site and stood quietly as did the others.  To our right two men had gathered, one toting guitar and the second bore accordion.  They sported boots and western garments, each had greying mustaches, and their faces appeared careworn.  A gentleman, who I believe represented the funeral home, announced that the service would begin shortly.  When he stood aside music filled the air—an easy plucking blended with gentle organ-like tones and Spanish lyrics.  Song after song followed, the string broken only by short testaments the musicians provided.  I wondered if this type of accompaniment was common on Mexican soil and was only foreign to me.

As the sun rose higher and temperatures did the same, I found myself briefly thinking about all that awaited my attention back at desk, until I forced my mind to stay in the present and remember why we had come together.  When the assortment of ballads ended, several speeches ensued, and I found myself wishing I understood the tongue in which they were enunciated.  A young woman stepped up to translate some of the words for us English speakers but was overcome with emotion and grew silent.  Before she ceased, we learned the man who had passed was a much-loved husband, father, and musician.

I didn’t know him well, but when I had occasion to walk by his workstation on factory floor, I would wave and say “hey”, as I did with everyone I passed.  Not all returned my greetings, but the man whose life and death we now honored, always did, with smile and thumbs up.  I am perhaps reading too much into his nonverbal response, but his genuine manner seemed to convey that he was well and wished the same.

When all who desired had finished offering thoughts, two more tunes were played before we disbanded.  Perhaps the duo played more than a normal quota in whisper to their friend’s spirit, which surely joined ceremony humming along with his amigos.

On ride back to work, we talked of life and loss, but the experience also reminded me I should take stock of what I have and count my blessings.  And though I didn’t understand the cantantes’ language, the haunting strains seemed to beseech that we strive to accomplish all our hearts hold dear so when it is our turn to bid goodbye, we do so with few regrets.