We view the changing of the seasons as a beautiful thing. The fall leaves falling down with their vibrant and peaceful colors. The first fall of soft, fluffy snow embarking a chilly and cozy winter. The first bloom of the flowers in the spring. The first sunshine-filled day marking summer. The seasons change, just as the seasons of our life change. We view a new season as a beautiful thing, I think our life can also be viewed as a beautiful season in itself. Samhain, Souls Day and Dia de los Muertos all share a common theme - the celebration of a life. Death is a sad, scary and honestly confusing part of life. Just as the seasons change, so do our lives. The loss of a loved one often leaves us longing for more, reminiscing on fond memories, and wishing we had more time. Similar to when winter begins, we often miss the warmer weather. The passing of a loved one can be compared to the seasons - all seasons end eventually. It can be considered a beautiful, new change. Something that marks the start of a new chapter in life (or a new season).

My mother holds our family in boxes. She spent decades compiling stories from tiny slivers of information via family bibles, genealogical archives, vital statistics databases. She collected all the letters and journals from extended family members and read each one.

Placing the specific within the context of time, timelines are almost as important as the lineage itself. More than a dormant, leafless family tree, her honoring is more vital, more abundant. Her histories contain personalities, feelings, and contemporaneous views of the past. Historical perspective lends insight to decisions grand and intimate, decisions that brought us to this time.

Such acts of remembrance shape our understanding of self. Dates and locations are cold, dead data points. Life is an ancestor writing a letter to her pioneering cousin, not knowing if she made the trek to Salt Lake, not knowing if she'll ever receive it or answer. Closing the letter with Happy Holidays, as the letter might arrive anytime between All Hallows Ev'n and Christmas Day.

My mother sees the dauntlessness of her foreborn cousin as explanation of her own intrepidity. Or an enriched connection to Family, to self, to history and time, to life and the eternal nature of consequence, of life leading to life. And in the shared remembrance, she honors the flesh and the spirit of her ancestors.

It was November 2nd, the last day of el Dia de los Muertos. Carmen Maria Isabella Sande Junquera entered the cathedral, pausing to dip her fingers in the holy water basin and bow to the crucifix while crossing herself. Candles lit the cathedral as far as she could see, their lights bouncing off the massive 24-karat décor. Though it was dimly lit, Carmen observed the church appeared to be vacant. Where was everyone? This was abuela’s funeral mass and her abuelita knew more than half the town. It was unthinkable that no one had shown up for it save her granddaughter.

Very confused and wide-eyed, Carmen looked down at her feet. ¡Dios mío! Why in heavens' name was she wearing her best huipil or formal, multi-colored dress? She should be wearing traditional funeral attire. Her Mamá would never let her end of it! Nervously, she smoothed the black mantilla that covered her head. At least she’d shown some respect and worn the head covering. The black lace mantilla was special; it had belonged to abuelita.

Best to take a seat and wait for the others, she thought and started down the aisle. Surprised by what she saw, she paused midway. Who were those three people silhouetted by the dim lights, standing directly in front of the altar? It didn’t look like Father Junco or altar boys. Whoever they were, Carmen didn’t know them.

¡Que extraño! What exactly was going on? This was all too strange, especially since no family or friends appeared to be in attendance.

Taking a deep breath, Carmen made her way to the altar, intending to only nod in greeting at the three unknown figures and then take a seat to await her family’s arrival. As she neared the end of the aisle, however, she was able to better see the three figures. Frightened, she dropped the pan dulce de muerto - or sweet bread - she carried and screamed. Now she was close enough, she could make out the three figures and the sight horrified her. They were no one she’d ever known or met, and yet, Carmen strangely recognized all three.

Standing directly in front, dead center, was none other than Frida Kahlo. She was flanked by a female Catrina and a male Catrin, each skeletal figure garish and ghastly while still superbly suited exactly how Frida and her spouse, Diego Rivera, had depicted them in pieces of art. If not for the shock, Carmen would have been impressed.

¿Que diablos? Carmen muttered but then quickly reminded herself she shouldn't cuss, especially in church. Still, the situation was more than alarming. It was 1976 and Frida had been dead for twenty-two years, but Carmen would have recognized her anywhere. The uniceja or unibrow took precedence, just as it always did in the pictures Carmen had seen. Though in church, Frida wore traditional men’s attire: pants, waistcoat, shirt, tie, and jacket. She was splendid, and all Carmen could do was stare. She must be dreaming – or dead.

“Bienvenido, Carmen,” Frida smiled and walked over to lightly touch Carmen’s arm. “We have been awaiting your arrival.”

“My arrival?” Carmen was beyond confused - and utterly afraid.

“Sí, querida,” Frida waved her arm. “We have all been anxious for the time you would join us.”

Carmen turned in the direction gestured by Frida and saw that the entire basilica was now full of la calavera or skeletal figures, each dressed in best formal attire.

Fear gripped and twisted around Carmen’s heart like an encroaching vine. She glanced down at the discarded pan dulce that she had intended to leave on the altar to honor her abuelita in the afterlife. Perhaps the pan dulce was hers instead for she must be dead. Speaking of which, if that was the case, where was her abuelita? Abuelita should be there to embrace and guide her to the afterlife. This was damn scary – a pesadilla or nightmare from which she wished to awaken.

Of a sudden, Frida turned to the right and greeted a figure walking toward them. ¡Finalmente! Illuminated by what appeared to be a thousand lights, Carmen’s abuela approached, looking as if she were floating on the air. Abuela had never looked so lovely, so youthful, or so happy. Carmen’s heart filled with joy and she wiped at her tears.

“¡Abuelita! ¡Estoy tan feliz de verte!” Never had she been so happy to see her grandmother!

“Te quiero, corazón. Todo está bien,” her grandmother replied to assure her granddaughter she was loved and all was well. Comforted, Carmen closed her eyes and felt her abuela's warm embrace as the woman kissed Carmen's tear streaked cheek.

After long moments, Carmen opened her eyes and found she was no longer inside the basilica. Instead, she was at the cathedral’s massive entry doors. Had she truly never entered?! All alone, she glanced down to find her dress was no longer colorful, but the traditional black one, befitting of the occasion. She still held the pan dulce that she had baked with love that morning. Quickly, she looked all about, her eyes catching sight of her family, who were now climbing the steps of the cathedral.

¡Dios mío! It had all been a dream – or had it? In her heart, Carmen knew that abuelita had visited on this dia de los muertos if for nothing else, to tell her adiós. Carmen smiled, both because of the relief she was still alive and because she now felt uniquely special. She would spend today celebrating her abuelita's life and would not waste time mourning. She now knew abuelita lived far beyond her mortal existence.

Still, Carmen was not completely surprised. Was all this not to be expected of abuelita? Carmen knew she was abuelita's favorite grandchild, after all. She stifled a small laugh, cognizant of the fact her mother would not appreciate the sound. With renewed determination, she pushed against the heavy doors and prepared to enter. Before, she had been dreading today’s mass, but now she looked forward to it with new enlightenment and a much brighter perspective of where her abuelita was.

Notes & References:

La Catrina or La Calavera Catrina, originally created by Jose Guadalupe Posada in 1910 was made more famous by Mexican artist, Diego Rivera, and his spouse, Frida Kahlo in a mural entitled “Dream of a Sunday Afternoon” , housed in the Zocalo or center of Mexico City.

In present day Mexico, la Catrina is linked to the celebration of el Dia de los Muertos almost seamlessly through art, face paint, elegant dress, music, and festivals. La Catrina gives a nod to the ancient Aztec queen of the underworld. El Dia de los Muertos is celebrated each year from November 1st through 2nd and honors the lives of the departed rather than a perpetuation of mourning for them.

References:

https://thegracemuseum.org/learn/2020-11-2-la-catrina-a-history/

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Day_of_the_Dead

On All Saints Day this year, I had a dream about a girl.

I knew her back when. She transferred in to my tiny little elementary school around fifth grade. Maybe sixth. She came with an older sister and a younger brother.

The brother was an ugly, rude little shit. Never liked him. He hung with the wrong crowd and I ended up booking him sometime in the late nineties.

But this aint about him.

This is about his sister(s).

Her older sister was stunning. I mean, honestly beautiful. She was always underappreciated by the boys in school, though. She wore a little too much makeup. Her hair was a little too big. Her pants a little too tight across amazing, curvy hips. I'd think that'd be enough to have all the boys after her, but things are different in cliquey little small towns. She was an outsider, a stranger, a little different. When I was in sixth grade, she was on the bus in the seat in front of me. She was a year older, and where I come from, that generally meant unobtainable. Boys dated younger girls, but that wasn't reversed. Unless you're Wesley, and that fucker was just lucky as hell and obviously had magic in his pants, because he dated a girl three years older than us. God. I still hate that guy, and by hate that guy, I mean admire him strongly and wish I knew his secret. That girl was hot. Cheerleader hot. Track and field hot. Magazine-cover hot. No shit. Anyway.

Her sister, out of the blue, turned to me and my best friend on the bus. I'm still not sure why she was on our bus, but some mysteries are lost to time. "Hey, David," she looked at my buddy, "switch seats with me for a minute." He did, and there was this gorgeous fucking stranger sitting next to me. Of course, she wasn't a stranger, we were acquaintances, and the middle school was small enough everyone knew everybody's name, at least. "Hey," she said. "I think you're a cool guy." Of course, I got a hard on. This was something from Penthouse Forum, of which I was intimately familiar as a wayward twelve or thirteen year old who had an uncle with a subscription and he didn't ever count how many back issues were in the bathroom magazine rack.

"I have a question for you."

"Sure, okay, what's up?" I was lucky the main brain was working properly to still form language.

"Have you ever had a blow job?"

Wait, what?

"Uhm, what?" Language. Still functional, but now confused.

She giggled, grinned, and leaned in like she was going to kiss me. She grabbed me behind the head, just like I'd seen in the movies, only...instead of a kiss, she put her mouth on my nose, and blew into my nostrils.

What the fuck?

What the fuck?

My hardon was still there, only now it was so confused and absolutely lost as to what was happening.

She laughed, blushed, and moved back into her seat. My buddy David just looked at me through his cokebottles and shook his head. I sat there in shocked silence, processing that I was almost kissed by a girl I thought (and still think) was one of the prettiest we ever had in school.

I sneezed.

She absolutely died laughing, and we never spoke of the incident again.

The thing is, that's not the girl in my dream last night, though.

Nicole. Her name is Nicole, and she was not quite as pretty as her sister, but she was a very good looking young woman. Hers was the first ass I ever grabbed, and I was in the seventh grade. She let me touch it. It was a one-time thing in the hallway at our lockers. I still remember her stonewashed jeans and me just asking her if I could. "Sure, knock yourself out," she said, grinning. I did. It was wonderful, and was the basis for comparison of every ass I grabbed until the year 2000. Nothing else ever happened, and like that nose job I got from her sister, it never got brought up again.

Nicole and I were friendly throughout high school. We never dated, we never flirted, we never really interacted outside of classes or extracurriculars. I always liked her, though. She had a pretty good head on her shoulders and she was always pretty. I didn't care for a couple of the girls she hung out with, though. They were just kinda assholes. But not Nicole. She was always sweet to me and my friends.

In my dream last night, she kissed me. I could feel her short sandy-blonde hair in my fingers. I could smell her Cool Water perfume. Her shiny, flavored lip gloss left my lips feeling moisturized and protected by strawberry goodness. It was absolutely real, such was the clarity of this dream. I woke up and could still feel her lips pressing against mine when my alarm clock sounded.

After my morning routine ended and I made it into my office, I set out finding this woman of my dreams.

My Google-Fu is medium strong. I'm no expert, but I can sometimes grab those haystack needles that I go on a mission to find. The internet wasn't really doing me much good, though, and I kept hitting brick walls. Facebook, of course, was where I ended up.

She isn't there.

Her sister is, (she is still gorgeous). Her brother is, (he is still ugly as fuck). Her mother is (she seems nice). Her best friends all are. Hell, friends we had in common are all present and accounted for. But not Nicole.

She's gone.

The girl who kissed me so tenderly that I still feel it hours later is only a dream.

That's all she'll ever be.

I had a dream about a girl who died a year ago today.

On a tangled web, woven

Among those still not chosen

We rise and fall in equilibrium

On id-est to quod-erat continuum

Yet the dismantled cobweb cloven

Whence those who lay still, frozen

One dies and we, verbatim,

Mourn or celebrate in triduum

Hollowmass predates antediluvium

Of the Eve and Days of the mutuum

All the Saints and All in absentia Souls

Register—are entered—ad Mortem Scrolls

But it's not all calligraphy

Some webs are scripted wretchedly

And penmanship can go awry

Vis-à-vis how lived afore they die

Some lives mystify Him, to whom,

Sits, hereafter, in judicium

When the record cannot be deciphered

The memoir cannot be recited

Elysium or ad Hades, the dead must wait

Until written, pro Veritas, their letters straight

And why the motion for passage, hence

Must be placed in continuance

Come Día de los Muertos

The season of the witch is, for those,

Closed on the rolls for the no-longer living

Unless, primum est, He is forgiving

To live the right life, it must be written

In the handwriting that the mortally smitten

Can deliver in toto as a matter of fact

Such that the One, reading it, need not redact