Earlier this year I had the opportunity to visit the graves of several of my ancestors. Buried in what is now a national monument right outside of where the old city wall of Lima once stood, this cemetery founded in 1808 is the resting place for the majority of my ancestors in Peru. Imposing mausoleums, weeping angels made of Carrara marble, and endless niches rising above the ground come together to create an enormous maze in this city of the dead.
I first visited the Presbitero Maestro cemetery twenty years ago with my grandfather’s first cousin who showed me where several of my Migone ancestors were buried. “Everyone is here,” she said. “There is no older grave left in Italy.” I was able to easily find the tombs in the desolate and dusty place. As I spotted the first tomb, a gardener spotted us and offered to clean the tombs and place flowers. Since most of the people buried in the sectors I visited died one hundred years ago, no other graves had flowers. The brightness of the fresh flowers stood in sharp contrast to the lonely, forgotten, dusty graves.
After visiting the tombs of my great-great grandparents Emmanuele Migone and Paola Crovetto, the young couple that arrived to Peru from Italy as adventurous and hardworking immigrants, we visited the tomb of their son Manuel Migone and his wife Emma Rivarola. We said a prayer out loud, somehow knowing that our ancestors were proud of us for having remembered them that morning. “Nobody comes here anymore,” said the old gardener. “Many years ago, a couple would come visit these very same tombs and leave flowers.” He was speaking of my great uncle Francisco and his wife. As we explored the endless rows of niches and the gardener gave us a tour of the place, we found the tomb of Manuel’s in-laws, Francesco Rivarola and Juana Maggi. It was quite a find! We had two more tombs to clean and adorn with flowers.
Although I never met any of these ancestors, visiting their tombs allowed me to remember them. How can I remember someone I never met? I remembered the stories I heard about them from my elders who did know them. I remembered that I am connected to them, and through them to hundreds of their descendants who mostly live in Lima. I remembered that I am part of something much bigger than just myself. I remembered that these ancestors root me in history and in a place. I remembered that their choices made in the 1870s and beyond continue to impact me today. In remembering them, they are made present.
November is a month to remember and to pray for the dead. This is a time to remember that all those who have been baptized in Christ are united in Him. The bonds that unite us, the living and the dead, go beyond flesh and bone. There is a spiritual connectedness that we share with the dead who now dwell in the presence of God. We remember our beloved dead because we know they truly live, and that one day we will see them face to face. We pray for those who have gone before us, especially family members, recalling that the bonds of family are only strengthened by the faith that is shared.
Pictures are mine, all rights reserved. Lima, 2018.
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