El día de los muertos

They say there are 5 stages to grief.
1. Denial
2. Anger
3. Desperate bargaining
4. Depression
5. Acceptance

The truth is that there are likely to be twice as many, not that that would matter. I seem to always get stuck alternating between 1 and 4, almost completely bypassing 2 and 3, and never really laying eyes on the elusive 5.

But this is not the point of this post.

Today, the annual celebration of The Day of the Dead draws to a close, and I am once again reminded that in some parts of the world, in the lives of some families, death and loss and pain and grieving are treated very differently.

I'm going to go out on a limb here and assume that I am not, as much as it pains me to say this, a very unique person. I am not different than most. I am your average, run of the mill kind of girl. And I struggle with the memory of my dead. They are easy to remember, and hard to talk about. I like to carry them around in a secret little spot, easily accessible but hardly touched. And because I am very average, I assume that a lot of you also lock it all away in quite the same way.

Now that I have kids this little spot keeps getting illuminated by this giant spotlight. Little girls and boys have a lot of questions, and right they should. They need to know. They need to understand when and why, and who, and what if? It's strange to watch the process, as a mother, dealing with my own loss. We start a conversation about planes, or family, or uncles, or sickness, and it invariably leads to Brian, to Dad. I see them working it out, going from chatty to quiet, from ease to disturbance. I walk with them through their confusion, watch them get sad, answer their questions, and then marvel at the acceptance (#5!) they reach so, so easily.

Were we all like this once? Are some of you like this still?

I'm not. I have been trying to remember them, and share bits and pieces of their lives with my kids. A lot of these bits are personal and I choose not to share them, lest they become less mine. And many of the pieces are not fit for public consumption (Brian and Jared and I had some crazy fun sometimes). 

So here are a few bits, a few pieces, a few images--to be recorded here with the antics of my children, with the adventures of my family. Because they're part of who we are.

Brian, Bela reminds me of you. I wish you could have met her. I'm glad you knew she was on the way. Not only do people seem to generally like her, she really likes people. You were like that. You were so daring, so full of life, and so considerate. You loved to fly, oh-you loved to fly. I only went up with you once but I'll never forget it. Thanks for helping me step lightly around the consequences of many of my bad decisions. Thank you for loving me enough to get mad at me for the silly things I did. Thanks for the phone calls when I was away in Spain, for taking care of my cat, for saying it like it was. For making me laugh. For making me a drink. For spending time with me. You loved those planes since the time you were a little boy, and I guess if you had to leave us early you went in the way that suited you most. 

And Dad, you have been gone almost 15 years now. My girls are missing out. I know they would have loved you in the way that only crazy little granddaughters can: intensely. I have very few pictures left of you, it adds to the mystery that you were for me. My early memories of you are fragmented but sweet, like the wood paneling in this picture. My later ones are fresh and dear. I spent the weekend telling Bela and Mae funny stories about you, but here I'll just say I love you and miss you. 

Bela and Mae, you would have loved these men. I promise I won't stop talking about them. And maybe one day you both can walk ME to mister number five with the ease you find it yourselves.

Celebremos nuestros muertos queridos.

Brian and Me - 1976

Me and Brian - 1977