The family gathered by the entrance of the cemetery. Then casually formed in groups and started a procession. They marched toward the Christ that hangs trapped from his wrists from an arch made out of cement.

They were all dressed in black. One of the women in front carried a small item wrapped in a black piece of cloth. A young woman, next to her, walked silently crying.

Only the birds and the wind and the steps, across the million times swept hard earthen path, could be heard.

When the procession reached the circle with the suffering statue of the Christ, they gathered around one side. Then the women unwrapped the object and carefully deposited it at the feet of the Christ. Several women started crying aloud. When they left, I approached the statue of the Christ hanging from the arch.

The object they had left there was a hollow figure of Saint Anthony, broken in 3 pieces.

It was only one of many broken saints at the feet of Christ.
This scene of broken saints at the feet of a trapped Christ, hanging from his wrists from an arch instead of a cross, was going to haunt me and only make sense in my spirit about 45 years later.

By that time, however, since I was in the midst of my journalism studies, I was sure that behind that procession laid an interesting story. However I had to leave town that afternoon. I hurried up my aunt, who was changing the flowers at my grandparent’s tomb. We took the small green Citroen (deux chevaux) and left, leaving behind dust and curiosity together.