To the rhythm of the trumpets
Once the procession approached Santa Maria Chapel, its destination, a crowd blocked the last hundred yards of the official itinerary. The faithful scrambled to postpone the end of the religious parade for fear of their upcoming apprehension—as strong as the unholy withdrawal from a potent drug—which would overtake them as soon as the float carrying the Nazarene crossed the threshold of the main chapel door amidst the cadence of the Spanish national anthem. It would mean the end of that year and the beginning of a drawn-out countdown until the next Holy Week. They were not about to allow it, not yet. Other volunteers replaced the worn-out cargadores underneath the float and, ignoring diocesan regulations, turned it around, swinging and moving it along the road with such grace that the figure of the Nazarene seemed to be walking. They carried it back to meet that of Our Lady. The latter had trailed behind and was before the Royal Prison, about two hundred yards away.
From “The Silver Teacup.”
These events occurred when I was a child. Now the crowds have changed. Some people show devotion and pray. Some admire the extraordinary beauty of their images and the way they are paraded. Many enjoy the processions as a religious festival: smoking, eating, and chatting as the portable altars pass. One expects these reactions in a country no longer Catholic, for the state has no official religion.
Carmela and Pepe/Louis Villalba
One day in the Spring of 2019, I found my mother sleepy and bored in her chair. To cheer her up, I turned off the television, took out a notebook and a pen, sat down across from her, and asked her to tell me about her life. We chatted for two hours every afternoon for three months. Her sweet, crystalline voice resounded as she narrated her memories. Her eyes sparkled, her face lit up, and her body straightened as if she wanted to stand up and dance. My mother relived her youth and the beautiful years with my father, relishing the memories of their strong love. My dad had often said he loved his wife more than his children. My pen detailed on the paper everything she said. So many anecdotes I had heard and collected many times before, but now new ones filled the empty lines of my old diary. The accuracy and consistency of her accounts stood firm as rocks because my mother’s judgment remained intact until the end of her life.
