My Brother Lives On

I have always believed that people who have passed away aren’t really dead. I know this, because I have heard them talking and laughing across the living room, happy to be home. The voices belong to my family members who return to our living world once a year—on El Día de Los Muertos, The Day of the Dead.

When I was five years old, I heard my brother’s voice over the altar. I sat down and began speaking to him, “Remember when it was Christmas time? Our family had gathered together to celebrate Christmas Eve. Mom had bought us new clothes. Everyone was hugging. You gave me your last hug, your last scent, and your last smile.”

When I rose to return to the kitchen, where my mother was cooking, I heard a soft voice calling my nickname, “Claudia.” I looked back to see who was calling me. I knew it was him. I felt the urge to embrace him and say, “I miss you so much. Why did you leave me?” Calling my name was his signal that he had returned to visit.

The Day of the Dead is a Mexican tradition celebrated in my home each year from October 22nd until November 4th. On this special occasion, our family receives important visitors. To prepare for their return home, we assemble an altar in the living room. The altar begins with a tablecloth covered in marigolds, representing the scent of the dead. My grandmother and mother offer traditional food, such as tamales, arroz con mole rojo, and hot chocolate. While Mom places the food on the table, I bring a hamper of fruits and my brother’s favorite toys to the altar. My grandfather always remembers a box of cigarettes and some liquor for the adults, if they enjoyed those things in life.

When people from other cultures hear about this tradition for the first time, they mistakenly think it must be ugly, scary, or sad. Nothing could be further from the truth! The Day of the Dead can be very comforting.

When I turned 13, I spoke to my brother’s spirit again. I was at the altar, praying and crying. I called out to him, “I still can’t forget you. I still have your picture in my mind. I can still imagine your little face and your words.” After praying, I went to sleep. My brother came to me in a dream, “Claudia, don’t cry. Don’t be sad. I’m okay.” I woke up and returned to the altar. I saw the candle. The wax was dripping, and I knew that he was crying because I was suffering.

The Day of the Dead is a tradition I will honor until the last day of my life. I have learned how to let go of my brother, the most important person in my life, because he is not really dead. I get to be with him once more each year at my family’s altar on The Day of the Dead.