The mummies, still on display, did not have the same confronting effect on Sarah. She turned a dark corner and stopped in front of the mummified body of a small baby girl, dressed in white and lying on velvet. “She looked like an angel with this halo of light around her, and I swear that in that moment I felt like I could stand there forever and just look at her.”
Another woman noticed Sarah’s silent tears and went to get her a tissue, quietly holding her arm.
Other child mummies in the museum had their own props, such as scepters and crowns. These were the Angelitos, or Little Angels. Prior to the mid-twentieth century in Mexico and elsewhere in Latin America, a dead baby or child was considered a spiritual being, almost a saint, with a direct audience with God. These Angelitos, free from sin, could offer favors for the family members they left behind.
The godmother would prepare the body, washing and dressing it in the garb of a pint-sized saint, and surround it with candles and flowers. The mother wouldn’t see the corpse until after this process, at which point the body had relinquished the burdens of grief, transformed into a heavenly being ready to take its place by God’s right side.
Friends and family were invited to the party, not only to honor the child but also to impress and gain its favor; remember, it now possessed great spiritual power. Sometimes the child was even carried from party to party, with other children acting as the pallbearers, with the parents and family in procession. Often the Angelito was photographed or painted amid a brilliant tableau.
For Sarah, though she holds no belief in the saints or the afterlife, it was the recognition of the child’s death that moved her. “These children were treated as so special. Something was done just for them,” she said. There were parties and paintings and games and, most of all, tasks to perform for the child—tasks beyond the lonely, interminable silences.
— From Here to Eternity: Traveling the World to Find the Good Death, Caitlin Doughty
