The day grandfather died, almost all the Persinos were alive: the Persinos of Mexicalzingo, those of Puebla capital, those of Cocoyotla and other latitudes. That funeral morning the members of the second generation forgot for a while that they hated each other; they embraced each other, it was like seeing the childhood of the early days; a world without greed; I saw them with their faces so sweet and afflicted, they were a family again. Grandfather died on the eve of All Saints' Day; there were mariachis, regular coffee, stiff bread; songs by José Alfredo Jiménez, Pedro and Vicente Fernández; there were children of distant relatives, friends of the Persinos who had not returned for decades; I don't know how a girl I liked from work crossed my path and I saw her that day, she was going with her parents to the cemetery, probably to see another older corpse, because of the Day of the Dead.

When the coffin descended to the ground, I could almost hear the broken hearts of the entire second generation of the Persinos; they were crying sincerely. The “maestro” Persino said some words that I don't remember now, several threw fists of earth into the box; they were burying a huge piece of their soul; the leader, the ogre, the son of a bitch, the loving father was leaving; the Persino Indian was leaving with his glorious sins, his rough, human deeds.

Photographers: John Kilar | Instagram