I would like to find my own way of coping with grief.

PalmWe picked up my godmother and headed straight up to the cemetery. All Saints' Day had passed days ago. The explosion of flowers now looks more like a still-life painting, reminding us that we're already late. However, if it weren't for my godmother, neither my mother nor I would ever visit that place. I wonder if, when she can no longer do it, someone will take over. If it were up to me, I wouldn't even know how to find the entrance gate to drive in, so it's she who, every now and then, guides me: "No, honey, go further ahead. It's a very big gate, you'll see it." To find the blog where our relatives are buried, I also need her directions: "The second street on the left." We parked the car and organized ourselves to decide who would visit first. It never ceases to amaze me how practicality intrudes in moments when you should seemingly be guided by instinct or impulsiveness. It's as if the attempt to be sensible numbs our insides a little.

We get to work and divide the tasks: my mother tries to separate the flowers, I empty the vase and refill the water, while my godmother tries to direct our movements, like an orchestra. The string tying the bouquet together is so strong that we can't remove it at all, and we start a competition to see who can find the easiest way: "Pull the string down, like this," says my godmother; "Take the flowers out, one by one, up," I say; "Give me something to cut the string with," says my mother. Suddenly, the three of us find ourselves trying to cut the string around the flowers with our house keys, without much success. As I watch some petals fly through the air from the shaking, I try to remember what the purpose of all this was. It's as if we've forgotten why we're there. Or do we want to forget why we're here? Managing, solving, and taking care of things has been how we've learned to show affection. And even here, we don't know how to do it any other way.

Once we've managed to free the flowers, we arrange them in a well-ventilated area and spend a few minutes observing the result and, finally, remembering our deceased loved ones. We fall silent, almost in darkness, because it's already six in the evening, and my mother, surreptitiously, takes out her phone to provide a little light. It's as if she's read my mind. So there we are, the three of us, looking at a niche illuminated by the iPhone's flashlight. More than solemn, going to the cemetery sometimes feels like a grotesque, even decadent, experience. Everything is so protocol-driven that it almost seems like a performance, a choreographed routine. Everything is so artificial that we betray ourselves in every gesture or spontaneous, truly sincere phrase. "Well, let's go. However, they can't see us. And I think about them all day long," says my godmother, indicating that five minutes has been enough for her. It's always been like this with her; her grief has always guided ours, too prominent for the rest of us to find our own. Her sorrow has always been greater, so profound that it seemed the rest of us couldn't hear it as well. Her lament has always been louder. Her tears have always come first. And just as quickly as they arrive, they are gone. We turn the line and change the subject. My mother asks where her father's godparents are buried, and my godmother tells her the exact niche number, even though she hasn't placed flowers there since becoming a widow. Then begins a whole detailed explanation about what they did with my godfather's remains, in the same tone she'd use if she were talking about renovating her house: "Godfather Miguel was buried, but over time it got into a mess, so a few years ago they dug him up, put him in a bag, and left him there." With her, talking about the dead ends up being a pragmatic matter, as if the most important thing were the action itself—and doing it well—rather than the reason for the action.

Perhaps that's why, being there, I find it hard to feel anything when I remember whose remains are in front of me. I'd like to have my own ritual, beyond the plastic flowers, the rather ineloquent phrase "we haven't forgotten you," and the same dove engraved by default on most gravestones. I'm not drawn to empty ceremonies, forced performances, like a family meal repeated Sunday after Sunday without enthusiasm or purpose. I'd like to connect with them in a different way. Death, choosing my form of mourning, deciding if I truly believe in an afterlife, and completely—or not—renouncing my spirituality.