The scene was familiar, but with an unexpected twist, as I crossed the entrance to San Juan’s Cementerio de la Capital last week. As in Recoleta Cemetery, more than 1,000 kilometres southeast, I found myself in a land of miniature houses for the dead, with showstopping marble and life-size bronze Jesus doors. Even the caretakers were dressed in the same smoky blue trousers and long sleeves.

But here, things had been scaled down and nature was all around. It seemed there was a pair of trees for every tomb, their trunks painted up to their waists in chalky white. I saw tall dusty firs, fresh green mulberry trees and sprawling shrubs, roses in a raised bed and borders of grass. A peaceful place to rest. There were far fewer streets to get lost in, too, and the tombs were generally less showy (not an angel-topped cupola in sight). I was fascinated by these walls of glass-fronted niches, which I’d not come upon before, displaying bronze plaques, ornaments and little vases of dried flowers.

And there it was, The empty frame, just waiting for me to fill it with a reflection.