There’s a church in my hometown.
It’s called El Humilladero.
But I didn’t go there to pray.
I went there to walk with the dead.
The cemetery next to it became my secret chapel, my place of calm.
My grandma—Oliva, though I called her mamá—used to take us there as children. Not just once, not just on special occasions. It was a ritual. A rhythm. A relationship.
We went to visit the dead.
And that’s what we called it: visiting.
As if they were still there, waiting for us.
As if silence and stone and dirt were just another kind of home.
It’s strange to me when people say someone they love has passed, but they haven’t been to the cemetery in years. I don’t judge—it’s just that for me, the bond doesn't end with burial. It continues, quietly, between the gravel paths and concrete tombs.
When life becomes too loud, when pain tightens in my chest and I don’t know where else to go—I find a cemetery.
I walk.
And somehow, I come back quieter. Lighter.
Those of us who grew up in the culture of pueblos, we didn’t fear the dead—we honored them. We visited them. We decorated their resting places. We told their stories.
Cemeteries taught me how to mourn, yes.
But they also taught me how to see.
There’s an aesthetic to grief, to memory, that has stayed with me ever since.
The church was first painted an eggshell tone—soft, humble. Then someone painted it pure white. But under the mountain sun, that white became the perfect yellow. Warm. Lived-in. It became my favorite base color. I’ve used it in my work more times than I can count.
The cemetery’s palette stays with me:
Stone floors.
Cement graves.
Metal plaques that rust with time.
Wilted flowers, more than fresh ones.
And the water—always cold, always abundant—pouring from the faucets meant to keep the flowerpots alive just a little longer.
I remember the little details.
Photos taped to tombstones.
Letters from daughters.
Plastic toys left for a sibling gone too soon.
Candles—once real, now battery-powered.
Tradition is fading.
People are busier.
The graves are quieter.
Even grief is becoming digital.
But I remember.
And maybe that’s part of why I paint.
Maybe that’s part of why I create—because memory needs a medium.
For me, it started there.
Among the stones, the dust, the stories no one tells anymore.
The cemetery gave me stillness.
It gave me color.
It gave me form.
And it gave me an understanding that loss doesn’t have to be lonely.
Sometimes, it's the most sacred kind of presence.
I still go, when I need to breathe.
I still walk the rows of names and dates.
I still say hello.
I think the dead like to be remembered.
And I think the living need a place to feel held.
For me, that place is always next to the church.
In the yellow-white sun.
With the cold water running.
And the silence that somehow says,
"You're not alone."