Day of the Dead, is celebrated on November 1st and 2nd. This holiday has roots in pre-Columbian cultures such as the Aztecs, who believed in honoring the dead through rituals that connected life and death. The holiday was influenced by Spanish Catholicism, blending native traditions with the Catholic All Saints’ Day and All Souls’ Day. Families create altars (ofrendas) to welcome the souls of deceased loved ones back to the world of the living. These altars are adorned with marigolds, candles, photos, and favorite foods of the deceased. The significance of Día de los Muertos remains strong in Mexican culture, though its commercialization, particularly outside of Mexico, sometimes dilutes its original spiritual and cultural meaning.

"The Long Pause Between Pages"

It started as an obligation. Every morning, Javier would shuffle into the kitchen, barely awake, to prepare breakfast for his grandmother. After her cancer diagnosis, his mother had moved in to care for her full-time. Javier, caught between his own world and the weight of family responsibility, was dragged into the routine. His grandmother, once a distant figure who sent cards on birthdays and called during the holidays, was now a daily presence in his life.

At first, Javier’s interactions with her were brief and stiff. He’d place the tray on her bedside table, exchange a few polite words, and disappear back into his own space. She was weak, tired, and mostly quiet, and Javier didn’t know how to bridge the gap between them. But as the days passed, something changed.

One morning, as he set down her breakfast, his grandmother looked up at him, her eyes soft with memory. “Your abuelo... he used to burn the toast every Sunday, without fail. It was terrible.” She chuckled, her voice barely more than a whisper. “But I ate it, because it was made with love.”

Javier hesitated, unsure of what to say, but the warmth in her voice stopped him from rushing off like usual. “I didn’t know that,” he replied, trying to imagine his distant, quiet grandfather in such a domestic, affectionate scene. And just like that, the stories began.

Each morning, as Javier brought her breakfast, his grandmother would share something new. It wasn’t always about his grandfather. In fact, she spoke more about her own life than he had ever expected. She told him about her childhood, about growing up with strict parents who held tightly to tradition. She talked about her brother, Jorge, who had been wild and free, always in trouble with the family but always lighting up her world. Jorge had disappeared into the mountains one day, chasing some elusive dream, and she had never seen him again.

But it wasn’t just her family. Javier was stunned when she casually mentioned the man she had almost married—the one that got away. “His name was Santiago,” she said one morning, her voice tinged with regret. “He was handsome, full of fire. I loved him... maybe more than I should have.” She paused, her eyes distant. “But it wasn’t meant to be. I chose your abuelo, and I don’t regret that. But there are times when I think... what if?”

Javier listened, not just out of obligation anymore, but because he was captivated. His grandmother wasn’t just his abuelo’s widow, or his mother’s mother—she was a whole person, with layers of stories, dreams, regrets, and memories that spanned far beyond what he had ever imagined. She wasn’t perfect, either. One night, she admitted to him that there had been moments in her life when she hadn’t acted in kindness, moments when pride or fear had made her cruel.

“There was a girl in the village, Carmen,” she said, her voice heavy with the weight of the past. “She was poor, had nothing. But she was beautiful. I envied her, and I said terrible things, made her life harder. I still think about that sometimes, about how small I was in that moment.”

Javier didn’t know what to say. He had never heard anyone in his family talk about things like that—admitting to mistakes, to moments of weakness. His grandmother’s stories didn’t always have happy endings, but they were real, and in them, he found pieces of himself he hadn’t known existed.

It wasn’t long before Javier found himself reading to her at night. What started as a simple gesture—a way to pass the time—quickly became a ritual. He would sit beside her bed, book in hand, and read until her stories interrupted the words on the page. More often than not, she would take over, her memories filling the room like a warm breeze. And Javier, who had once begrudged these moments, found himself looking forward to them, craving the next story, the next layer of her life to unfold.

As her health declined, there were nights when she was too weak to speak. Javier would sit beside her, the book in his lap, just keeping her company. On those nights, the silence felt full—full of everything she had shared, full of the connection that had grown between them.

One morning, he walked into her room with breakfast, but the bed was empty. His mother stood at the window, her face streaked with quiet tears. His grandmother had passed in the early hours, slipping away without a sound. The tray in Javier’s hands felt heavy, and his heart sank.

But in the days that followed, the grief he expected didn’t consume him. Instead, he was filled with a deep sense of gratitude. He had been given something priceless—her stories, her life, the moments they had shared. And even though she was gone, she didn’t feel lost to him. Her memories, her voice, would always be with him.

One Year Later – Day of the Dead

The flickering glow of candles bathed the altar in soft light, the scent of marigolds thick in the air. Javier knelt in front of the ofrenda, carefully arranging the tamales—his grandmother’s favorite—next to the sugar skulls and her photograph. Her face, captured in a moment of youthful joy, smiled back at him through the candlelight.

This was the first Día de los Muertos since she had passed, and Javier felt a quiet anticipation in the room, as though the boundary between worlds was thin enough to touch. He stood for a moment, looking at the altar, the vibrant orange marigold petals forming a bridge between him and the past.

He lit a candle, watching the flame dance and flicker, and closed his eyes. The night was still, but in the quiet, there was a presence—a warmth that felt familiar, like the comfort of her voice during those last few months. As the flame steadied, a whisper seemed to rise with it, soft and familiar: I’m always with you.

The words weren’t loud, but they filled the room, filled his heart. Javier smiled, his eyes still closed, feeling the gentle tug of memory. His grandmother’s stories hadn’t ended with her death. They lived on, woven into his own life, into the stories he would tell, the memories he would carry forward. Her regrets, her loves, her moments of failure and triumph—they were all part of him now, stitched into the fabric of his own journey.

As the candle flickered before her photograph, Javier knew he wasn’t just standing there remembering her. He was continuing her story, living it, and in doing so, he was giving it new life. The stories she had shared with him were now his, and they would live on through him, just as surely as the flame before him danced in the darkness.

“I’m always with you,” she had said, and in that moment, Javier knew it to be true. He wasn’t waiting for her story anymore. It had become his.

And as the night deepened, the warmth of the marigolds and the light of the candles reminded him that some stories, like theirs, never really end. They continue, long after the last words are spoken, in the quiet spaces between memories, in the pause between pages, in the flicker of a candle's flame.

Prompt:

"Think of a loved one who has passed on. How might their spirit be with you today? Write about a moment where you felt connected to them, even after they were gone."