Five Things I Learned
from Día de los Muertos

Un recuerdo que dejo
¿Con qué he de irme?
¿Nada dejaré en pos de mi sobre la tierra?
¿Cómo ha de actuar mi corazón?
¿Acaso en vano venimos a vivir,
a brotar sobre la tierra?
Dejemos al menos flores
Dejemos al menos cantos.

In La Paz, Baja California Sur, Mexico, the first two days November smell like marigolds and desert sand and sea air. The plaza fills with laughter, candlelight, and men in glorious drag as Catrinas—lace fans, painted faces, and all. My parents lived there for twenty years, and every fall they wandered through the town square, admiring the ofrendas–altars honoring each family’s beloved dead with their favorite foods, photos, and memories, spoken or sung–and soaking in that mix of reverence and joy.

When my stepfather died in 2018, the festival changed shape for us. My mother built her first ofrenda on a wall-hung curio shelf modeled after one in Frida Kahlo’s house—the same shelf that now hangs in mine. Watching her fill it with color and care, I realized Día de los Muertos isn’t just a holiday. It’s a teacher.

1. Love doesn’t stop at the border between life and death.
   The photos, candles, and food aren’t offerings to ghosts—they’re reminders that connection survives change. We still share the same table, just across time.
2. Storytelling is an act of resurrection.
   Every “remember when…” brings someone back for a moment. The stories we tell keep them moving through the room, laughing beside us.
3. Food is memory made edible.
   Pan de muerto, tamales, tequila—it’s all communion. To feed the living and the dead together is to admit we still belong to each other.
4. Joy is not disrespectful.
   The drag Catrinas, the music, the dancing—they prove that mourning can be playful, irreverent, and alive. Grief and laughter can share a stage.
5. The veil may thin, but love never does.
   Every marigold petal, every flame, every whispered gracias keeps that truth alive. Death isn’t an ending; it’s another verse in the same song.

When I see the glow of the altars or glance at that Frida-style shelf on my wall, I remember: we don’t stop loving the people who’ve gone. We just learn new ways to keep the conversation going.

A remembrance I leave, with what shall I go?
Shall I leave nothing behind me on earth?
How must my heart act?
Do we come to live,
to sprout on the earth, in vain?
Let us at least leave flowers,
Let us at least leave songs.               

*Poem by Nezahualcóyotl