Day of the Dead

It felt like an Old Western movie in the moments prior to a showdown when the opponents stare one another down. Except this wasn't a desolate town in West Texas, it was St. John's; and my enemy wasn't a cowboy dressed in black chaps, it was a Day of the Dead altar.

A simple display that intrigued most who passed by struck fear into me. I had made the altar with my own hands, but now I wouldn't dare touch it. Instead I rubbed my nervous fingers across the picture I held. I dared not look down at it; rather, I focused completely on the altar. It was beautiful. Surrounding the golden pyramid in the center were candles, ribbons, bottles, food, flowers, bones, and baskets. All that was missing were photographs of lost loved ones. There were plenty of pictures of deceased celebrities, but there was a dearth of personal pictures.

I finally understood why placing a picture of a lost family member on the altar was so difficult. I looked down at the black-and-white picture I fidgeted with in my hands. It was the high school graduation photo of a beautiful, happy, young, Hispanic woman.  It was the photo of a hard-working airline stewardess. It was the photo of a true matriarch. It was the same photo that had sat on my dresser for the past five years.

It was a portrait of my Abuela. Abuela had died early that morning. I originally thought that placing her photo on the altar would help me with the grieving process, but now I just couldn't do it. I was paralyzed with fear. If I put her picture on the altar it would mean that Abuela was really gone, and I was unready to embrace this harsh reality. I was still trying to convince myself that she would wake up. She had to; I needed her. But in the back of my mind I knew that she wouldn't, she couldn't. She was gone.

I reached my hand out to open up the display case and slide Abuela's picture inside. I have to do this, I thought to myself. It will make me feel better. My hand trembled against the cool glass; my heart beat madly. Could I do this? I kept my hand on the glass trying to muster up the courage required to open the case. I began to get frustrated with myself. Why couldn't I let the picture go?

Finally, I realized if I put the picture on the altar it would signify that Abuela truly never was coming back. I was unwilling to handle the truth. I wanted to continue living in the fantasy world that I had been living in all day, the world that Abuela was still in. I needed to think that she would be there waiting for me when I got home from school to survive the rest of the afternoon.

I didn't put Abuela's picture on the altar that day. I took it home and placed it back on my dresser where it belongs. To the onlooker it looks as if nothing has changed, but I know better. I know that my dresser has transformed into my own personal Day of the Dead altar in honor of the woman I love most, my Abuela.

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