Day of the Dead

“My brain is writing” I told Thomas as we sat on the couch of Jan and Dave’s New Hampshire home. “Then go write. If the muse is calling, you should answer. I’ll sit and play the guitar.” he said as I sipped the last gulp of coffee mixed with Irish Cream because I forgot to get cream last night and it’s Saturday. That whole last part of that previous sentence was written purely because I am Irish raised Catholic and we feel guilty about everything. Ugh. I turned to look at him and began to stretch my body toward the window behind me to take in the view of an oxbow of the Saco River enshrouded in oak and beech leaves clinging, the pine and hemlock unflinching. THUMP. That was the sound of a sparrow hitting the window right behind our heads, small grey feathers stuck to the glass the first evidence of his plight. I looked to the ground right below and watched as his fanned out tail collapsed. I laughed because it was such a sharp turn from the peace of the moment before. Thomas didn’t know that my mind was writing about Dia de los Muertos, Day of the Dead. “Well if that’s not a sign, I don’t know what is. I guess I need to write.”

Before I sat down to start, I knew that I needed to attend to the sparrow. I picked him up with one hand and laid him in the other that was warmed inside a red suede fire glove. Warm, soft, and limp, I patted his head and back checking for any signs of life. The left eye was unblinking, I knew he was gone. A seed was still in his beak. I tried to take the seed out, then I decided no, he would need that wherever he is going. “You are going to get a proper funeral.” I told him. “I’m sorry it all ended that way.” Walking toward the woods, braless and wearing pajamas paired with an oversized autumnal colored sweater coat, I thought about Thomas watching me from inside thinking “This bitch is cray.” which I know he wasn’t thinking but I also know we would get a good laugh out of me saying it. The sun was shining directly on an oak just beyond the edge of the embankment with a little nook at its base. I shuffled through the leaves in my lavender slipper socks and crouched down with his still lifeless body. I took one finger and pushed on his chest hoping that somehow I could perform tiny CPR on the poor thing. Silly, crazy me. I laid him to rest, patted him a few times, said an Our Father because it’s the one I know best. I covered him with crunchy oak leaves, hoping that would deter any predator from allowing him to become part of this tree.

All week I have been lightly covering Dia de los Muertos in my classes with my yearly foray into the life and times of Frida Kahlo. I emphasize a lesson on her because she rose above extreme difficulties through art and a tough determination to be true to herself. I want them to take something away from that, to know that life can be shitty and beautiful and maybe that’s the point. The media has been saturated with her image, ULTA carrying a makeup line inspired by her aesthetic. But, I want everyone to know, I liked her way before she was cool. I keep her legacy alive because that’s what Dia de los Muertos is all about, as long as we remember the ones who impacted our lives and help others know them too, they are not truly dead. As I explained the significance of the holiday to students and why it is important to honor those who have passed, I found myself getting choked up thinking about Dad. I want him back the way he used to be, not how he was at the end. I didn’t realize how much I missed that version of him. He was an oak of a human and I don’t like that my world now spins on without him. Or does it?

Last night and today, Thomas and I talked about our loved ones that have passed. Thomas doesn’t believe in much and certainly doesn’t believe that the dead come back on November 1st to eat some sweet anise flavored bread left on an altar. But, I still feel like I know his Dad just from the way he talks about him and the memories he has shared. He has always said that his dad and my Mom would have been thick as thieves. Both had/have a love of chardonnay and conversation that pushed the boundaries of comfort. We talked about Mr. Fitzgibbons and how awesome it was to have him at our St. Patrick’s Day celebration, he regaling us with stories of his late wife. The way that we weave our conversations seems to always include threads of life and death, hilarity and insanity. Yes, the dead can come back to life indeed. We had pan de los muertos, Day of the Dead bread, for breakfast. The culinary kids at my school made it specifically for this week, they did an amazing job. Who knows, maybe Dad will find a little crumb to nibble on later. He loved all things black licorice and anise flavored, I do too.

A sycamore log blazes in the wood stove, that tree has become one of my favorites. Thomas is singing “Hey Joe” and playing his guitar. He worried that he was going to distract me while writing, I told him he only gets more of my neurons firing and it helps. My sisters and I got a message from my cousin Kerry a few minutes ago as I was in the middle of writing. “I thought you might want to know about this tradition we have at our school. When a faculty member loses a loved one, a book is donated to our school library in their memory. This was presented to me today.”

I cried when I read her message and saw this image. I showed Thomas, he too wondered if it were Moby Dick (it wasn’t and that’s just fine). I love that his name is living inside a book right now, that someday a budding writer will see his name and wonder who he was. Thomas is now singing “A Pirate Looks at 40”, a great song by Jimmy Buffet, another soul gone far too soon. Or is he?