A Story of Love, Loss, and the Hands That Keep Memory Alive

The Moment Everything Changed

It was late October when my daughter asked the question that shattered me.

"Mama, why do we put flowers for people who aren't here?"

She was five. Holding a bundle of bright orange marigolds we'd just bought at the mercado. Her tiny fingers traced the petals like she was reading braille—searching for answers in their velvet folds.

I knelt down on our kitchen floor, eye-to-eye with her, and tried to explain death to someone who still believed in magic. Someone who thought clouds were cotton candy and stars were nightlights God forgot to turn off.

How do you tell a child that the woman who sang her lullabies, who called her "mi cielo," who saved every single crayon drawing in a special box—how do you tell her that abuela is gone?

But then she said something that broke me wide open:

"But Mama, I can still feel her hugs."

And that's when I understood. They said she'd forget. She was only three when we lost Abuela. "Too young to remember," they whispered at the funeral. "It's a blessing, really."

But they were wrong.

Memory Isn't Just in Your Mind—It Lives in Your Bones

You see, memory isn't just mental snapshots filed away in your brain. It's muscle memory. Soul memory. The way your hands know how to fold tamales even though no one taught you—oh wait, someone DID. She did.

It's the comfort you feel when you smell cinnamon and canela, even if you can't name why.

It's the lullaby that escapes your lips when you rock your own baby, using words you swear you don't remember learning.

This is what Día de los Muertos understands that grief culture often doesn't: Love isn't confined to the living.

When we build an ofrenda—that sacred altar adorned with marigolds, candles, photographs, and favorite foods—we're not "moving on." We're not "letting go."

We're doing something far more powerful: We're refusing to forget.

Small Hands, Ancient Tradition

Fast forward to this November. My daughter is now six. And she's building her first ofrenda with me.

Well, I'm assisting. She's the architect of this memorial.

"Abuela liked these cookies, right Mama?" she asks, placing a plate of Marias on the bottom tier.

"Yes, baby. She loved those."

"And she always had flowers in her hair for church?"

"Every single Sunday."

She nods, satisfied, and reaches for the marigolds. Her little hands arrange them with such care, such reverence, that I have to turn away so she won't see me cry.

But then she does something that drops me to my knees.

She pulls out a drawing from her backpack—one she made at school. It's crayon-bright and messy and absolutely perfect. A woman with flowers in her hair, surrounded by hearts. At the bottom, in her wobbly kindergarten handwriting: "FOR ABUELA."

Can we put this on her ofrenda? she asks. "So she knows I still love her?"

And there it is.

The moment that becomes art. The moment that becomes legacy. The moment that proves love transcends absolutely everything.

Why This Matters More Than Ever

In our fast-paced, move forward culture, we're often told that dwelling on loss is unhealthy. That remembrance is the same as being stuck.

But Día de los Muertos teaches us something radical:

Grief and joy can coexist.
Death and celebration can dance together.
Remembering isn't the opposite of healing—it's the pathway to it.

When we teach our children to honor those who've passed, we're teaching them:

• That love doesn't have an expiration date

• That family extends beyond the physical realm

• That memory is a superpower, not a burden

• That we honor the dead by LIVING fully and loudly in their name

My daughter will grow up knowing her great-grandmother through stories, through recipes, through the ofrenda we build together every November.

She'll know that Abuela:

• Made the best chile rellenos in the entire neighborhood

• Could dance salsa until midnight and still wake up for 6am Mass

• Had a laugh that could crack open even the grumpiest heart

• Believed education was the greatest gift she could give her grandchildren

• Loved with a fierceness that literally shaped who we are today

And all of this lives NOW. In us. In the traditions we keep.