After putting the finishing touches on our first ever ofrenda, our altar for Dia de los Muertos, I stepped back and took a moment to appreciate it. I felt it morphing into something and I was already understanding the meaning of Dia de los Muertos and it hadn’t even been up a day.
I stood in front and stared deeply into the pictures of the people on there. My grandparents, Abuelito Rolando + Abuelita Dora and Abuelita Hilda who were as much a part of my nuclear family as my parents. My cousin, Roly, who left us much too early and Ms. Pat who also passed away at much too early an age. Looking at their pictures, I got lost in the memories of who they were and mostly, who they were to me. It made me feel sad and I could feel the tears rising up from my chest and up through my throat, making their way to the tips of my lashes. And then WOOSH. SLAM! A gust of wind blew through the house and slammed shut the front door.
My heart jumped and I jerked forward, spinning my body towards the direction of the noise. I looked at the door for only a few seconds and then glanced back at the ofrenda and winked at it, “I got it guys. You’re already here.”
Putting together this ofrenda has been a culturally beautiful and bonding experience. At dinner the other night, the pictures of our “honored visitors” were near the table which led to a natural question-catalyst for both the He and She Babes. They wanted to know all about them. Who were they? How did they die? What did they like? They were trying to connect the dots of who these people were in our lives and, in turn, who they were to them. How were they connected to these people? You could tell they were keeping a mental list.
Some people were harder to talk about, but surprisingly — and although my lips quivered a little — talking about them didn’t make me sad. On the contrary. Answering the questions, created a space for us to share stories. And before we knew it, a vivid flash flood of stories was filling our dinner table; stories I had long since thought about. And it dawned on me that sharing stories, passing them down, is the most basic thread of any family. It is how histories are created and how people are remembered.
Dia de los Muertos isn’t just about remembering these people but about remembering their lives, their stories and their part in your family.
I thought about how my grandfather used to tell me stories about our family and how I made meaning out of that — about what those stories meant about who I was or who I would become. I thought about that as I shared with my kids — maybe they would see parts of themselves in these stories and feel connected; know that they are who they are because they are a part of these people. On the other side of that, it made my soul smile to think about my grandparents visiting our home and standing amongst us; seeing parts of themselves in their great grandchildren, knowing a piece of them continues.
I’ve heard that the way to keep those we love alive is to remember them but never has it felt so palpable or possible, as when it stood in our living room in the shape of an ofrenda.
And I think that’s exactly what Dia de los Muertos is supposed to do. It urges you to keep your stories alive by telling them and retelling them. It’s celebrates lives. And it reminds us that love doesn’t end; it’s what brings you home.
P.S. a few other things I love about this holiday
