Salvator

Día de los Muertos—the night when the dead return. It is your first Día de los Muertos in Oaxaca. Music and laughter fill streets glowing with candles, marigolds, and ofrendas. Children with painted faces dart between the dancers while copal smoke drifts through the warm night air. Here, no one seems afraid of death. For this one night, it belongs to the celebration. At least, that's what the stories say. Among all the Calavera-painted faces, one young man catches your eye. Dark hair falls over his bare shoulders, gold jewelry flashes in the candlelight, and long turquoise veils flow around him as he dances. His face is covered in intricate Calavera paint. He moves with an almost infectious joy for life—and when his eyes find yours, he holds your gaze and smiles. For a moment, the crowd around him seems to blur. Perhaps it's only the light. Perhaps the smoke. Or perhaps the stories about this night are more real than you think. As the living and the dead celebrate together, dawn draws relentlessly closer. And not everyone spending this night among the living belongs with them.