The Paths of the Dead

We first celebrated Dia de los Muertos in 2015, the year my maternal grandfather died.  Every year since we have organized an offrenda, made flowers, lit candles. Among the flowers we put the pictures of those who've passed on, and we share their stories. For some of the girls, the stories and old pictures are the only memories they have of their grandparents and uncle.  This year we watched old home movies from Rick's childhood, and I flipped through the handful of photos I have of my dad.

It's not always an easy day. There are far more pictures on the altar than I wish were there. Sometimes the memories and stories are fun; other times they are bitter reminders of stories cut short, of relationships unfinished and ragged around the edges.  This year my heart hurt a little as I remembered Kathy's beautiful smile, Joe's love of Jim Carrey, Gregg's full belly laugh, my Papi's cologne, Maxine snorting "Well!" and how my dad baked gingerbread every Christmas--six batches in a massive green Tupperware bowl.  They are missed, even in their imperfections.

And yet these are but a handful of the people who have gone on before us.  It's amazing to think how many people lived and died that I can be right here, right now.  On one side my ancestors came from Switzerland, Germany, England and Scotland as early as the mid 1600s and settled in the British colonies in Maryland, Virginia, and North Carolina.  They fought in the Revolutionary and Civil wars; they drifted west across Arkansas, New Mexico, the Blue Range of Arizona, and even into the Alaskan territory.  On the other side, my family were immigrants from Sweden and Mexico, a motley crew that settled in southern California and included tall blond Vikings and Yaqui Indians and a red-headed Spanish great-great-grandmother. I have had direct relatives involved in every major war of the last two hundred and fifty years.  They fought, they lived, they laughed and loved and died.  Though I only know a few dozen of their names and even fewer of their faces, this is a day to remember them as well.  Their paths led inexorably to mine, and my children's, and my children's children.  None of us truly walk alone.

So today, I hope you'll take the time to remember your dead.  Tell their stories.  Think of yours. Trace the paths of those who have come before and see how far you've come across eternity.  What a gift to know how we fit into it all, even when it hurts.