“the lacuna,” barbara kingsolver

Two characters are discussing nationality and history.  Americans love being told about how they have slipped the noose of history, that their story is something beyond that of their forefathers; Mexicans are rooted in history as the foundation of the world.  On the Day of the Dead:

“People love it, as much as they love a wedding.  Really it is a kind of wedding, to the people in your past.  You take a vow they’re all still with you.  You cook a feast and bring enough food for the dead people too.”

I was in a vulnerable moment and that line blinded me momentarily.  We are married to our past.  Maybe more accurately, widowed – a bond that lasts but can be superceded, and is, because we are betrothed to the future.  It is an arranged marriage.  We will meet it for the first time tomorrow, our wedding day.  I know that I am stretching this metaphor to its utmost limit.  But it’s been haunting me.

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