Sitting with the Dead

Their photos spread on my altar
and all the candles burning,
marigold petals blessing everything,
I begin to understand
what grounding it gives
to honor our ancestors.

Here in my home as I honor them,
I feel them stirring in my bones.
Their patterns, their questions,
their passions and their sorrows
alive in my blood and bestowing still
their gift of life to me.

Tomorrow at the Panteón
I will sit in my friend Conchita’s stead
at the grave of her dear son, Angel.
She’s unable to leave the nursing home
so I will tend his burial place
with marigolds, with candles, and  the attentiveness of love.

And since I cannot visit the holy grounds
where far away my own dead lie,
I will mourn my own as I sit
at the resting place of Conchita’s boy,
who died by violence at the age of 28.
Angel, I bring your mother’s blessing.

Sitting with my dead
here in my home this night
I’m a drop of water in a waterfall of gone-before,
comforted to know that all around me in this Mexican village,
tonight and tomorrow the living
will sit with their beloved dead.

©Susa Silvermarie 2024