Noche de Los Muertos by Linda Watanabe McFerrin Remembering a dark night in San Francisco … We are pressed, our backs to the wall, in Balmy Alley, a bottleneck of a back street in San Francisco’s Mission District, as the dead drift by. Skeletons on stilts, in bridal gowns, playing drums in steel bands—Los Muertos, The Dead—proceed in almost single-file procession through a cramped alleyway that feels like the birth canal to another world. We are skeletons too. My husband Lowry and our friend Jeff are tall, gaunt, black-caped and spectral. The white markings on the chest of Lowry’s black shirt suggest a ribcage. Jeff’s black gloves are spidered...
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