Día de los Muertos
Today, I pass the second Día de los Muertos since a soul close to my heart left this world. As I thought about the occasion, I knew I wanted to mark the day here, but I came up dry, which surprised me. I thought about it for awhile, and I finally realized it’s because that as a day of remembrance, it is entirely unnecessary for me, and probably for anyone who has loved and lost. For me, every day is a Day of the Dead. He is never far from my thoughts; I am constantly remembering him.
Every time I see a hummingbird, a truck like his, or I hear a song that mattered to one or both of us, or anything that evokes our time together, he steps forward in my mind, though I am ever aware that he is there in the background. He does not leave, and I don’t want him to.
Just yesterday, I saw a picture online that an acquaintance took of a stairway in Monterey. When I saw it, I couldn’t believe it. I was blown away, and then I smiled, amazed at the gift I’d just received, unbeknownst to the giver. A and I walked up that same staircase once (on Memorial Day, oddly enough,) and I was wearing a short skirt and walking ahead of him, and he reached out for a fond grope. It is a favorite memory of mine; I can’t speak for him. I never had a photo of that staircase; and we so rarely have photos of the small moments that make up our sweetest memories, anyway. But now I do. It’s like that; all day long, every day, the memories come and go.
In my office at home is a space that I jokingly refer to as “the shrine,” but only because that’s exactly what it is. His picture is there, a candle that I light every night, and a collection of other items that are meaningful symbols for me, even if no one else would see anything but collection of odds and ends. It is reminiscent of the ofrendas so common to this holy day, although the only time it has food on it is when I set my snacks there out of reach of the dogs. It also differs in that it is there every day, and has been developing since a few weeks after he passed. It’s pretty stable now; the last things I added were a couple of early projects I made in my shop that I wanted to show him. I hope he is proud of me.
Before I go to bed each night, I write to him in my journal and tell him what’s going on with me, on all fronts. Sometimes I’m upset and crying, but as often I just tell him what happened during my day, as I always did. I try not to take it personally that he doesn’t tell me about his, though I am endlessly curious about it. And I still crack wise to him, as always. I think that may well have been the first sign I had that I was feeling a little better, a little healed, all those months ago: I made a joke to him in my journal. 2000 pages later, I know that writing those pages helped saved my life.
A lot of people talk about the “necessity” of saying good-bye to our loved ones who pass, and if they want to, and are able to, then I wish them well. But I have no intention of doing so. So often, we are told that those who have passed have just moved far away for a time, and that eventually we’ll all be home together. That image gives me comfort, and allows me to wrap my mind around this most unwelcome of absences. It brings this incomprehensible loss, and the attendant mystery, into human scale, and that I can deal with much better.
But along with that are these traditions and societal expectations that we cannot speak to these people, that it’s unhealthy to keep talking about them and thinking about them. Frankly, those are behaviors I reserve for people I dislike, who have earned my anger and enmity, who are dead to me. I believe my A is alive. Not in the same way I am, obviously; I’m not delusional. But somewhere out there, I believe he’s still doing his thing, whatever it is you do/are when you leave this world. And I believe our relationship continues, though the circumstances thereof are certainly altered, and not to my liking. But the love is still there, and it will remain. I don’t tell many people too many details about this aspect of my reality, though; they might think me unhinged. But if he’d moved to Outer Mongolia and had no access to phone or e-mail, and only spotty mail service, would I have said “good-bye,” and proceeded not to think about him, talk about him or write him letters until I picked him up at the airport again? Of course not. I find it so strange that people of faith claim their loved one is alive in heaven or some other afterlife, and yet act as if they don’t believe it at all. Strange and sad for them. Because knowing he’s out there has made all the difference for me. I don’t think I would’ve gotten this far without that, honestly.
In the Mexican tradition, they believe the souls of their loved ones who have passed on come to visit on el Día de los Muertos, a remembrance even the Catholic Church embraces with All Souls’ Day. The tradition itself demonstrates an understanding of, or at least a belief in, a living soul that could come back to be honored, souls that still love the ones who love them. That is my feeling; but I don’t think it has to be limited to a single day. Every day that I remember him, miss him, hold him in my heart, and live my life the best I can even so, I honor him. And he was absolutely a man worth honoring.