I would like to remember my sister Vette.

She is the reason that my body is fat.

All my life she gave me snacks.

She was the best cook in our Wolfe pack.

She loved me unconditionally no matter how bad.

When God called her in, I couldn't get mad.

You see we all have to go one day,

This I know for sure.

But I lost the only member of my family whose heart was truly pure.

So, I am writing this mini holiday history lesson in the hopes of clarifying a confusion before it is passed along as fact.

Cinco de Mayo, Fifth of May, celebrates the victory of Mexican forces over the second French Empire at the battle of Puebla in 1862. Quite popular in the US, it is overshadowed in Mexico by Mexican Independence Day, the most important national holiday in Mexico, which is celebrated on September 16, commemorating the Cry of Dolores in 1810, which started the war of Mexican independence from Spain.

El Día de los Muertos, the Day of the Dead, is celebrated on November 1st and 2nd. It may also occur on October 31 or November 6, depending on the region. On this holiday, Mexican families and friends get together to remember and pay respects to their deceased. It is a time of joyful remembrance rather than grief and mourning. Celebrations often include the favorite foods and drinks of the deceased. Perhaps even the Cinco de Mayo favorite, margaritas... :-)

I shouldn’t say his name online so I won’t, but you’ll know what you needed to know about him by the end of this.

He was a father. He was my dad’s best friend. When I was young, my father told me that if anything happened to he and my mom, we wouldn’t be going to live with my grandparents, we would be going with him and his wife and their newborn baby girl. I was told he was my uncle. He wasn’t by any means related to me, but he was so trustworthy and kind and genuine that my dad trusted him and my mom trusted him more than my mom’s parents. Think about that.

He owned a couple properties on the street he lived. My dad talked to him about the real estate business one day, and within 10 years he was almost a million dollars richer. He built up his home, made it real nice, and when the right time came, he had a kid. I’ll always remember his smile.

Two years ago, he was out driving, stopped at a red light. He couldn’t have known this, but up ahead was a car maneuvering around others, at least double if not triple the speed limit. Cop cars followed behind him. But stopped at that red light, he was in the way. He was no longer a person but an obstacle. His car was no longer a vehicle, it was an inconvenience. With no warning, no signs of trouble, he was hit dead on in the front driver’s side. He did not make it. He died on impact.

The guy who killed him? He’s alive. Barely hurt him. He’s in jail; only committed 3rd degree murder so he may be out sooner than expected. Who knows. He’s alive.

But my uncle, one of the best men my father knew and one of my favorite adults to be around, died, and while he won’t be back, his impression and his imprint still strike hard. There will never be another of him. There will only be him.

When the news came, I had to see my dad in pain. I had to see him look out the kitchen window, we having moved away from him and his wife, and he just stood there for well over an hour. I can’t imagine what he was thinking.

People like him ought to be remembered. They better be. They are not inconveniences. They are not obstacles. They are uncles. They are fathers and husbands and all-around beautiful people. The best in the world. The best we’ve got.

Beauty. They are beauty. They are everything in the most perfect form.

An old folding chair sat on the treated pine floating dock. Aluminum framed, plastic armed, nylon strapping; the colors reflected the preferred palettes prevalent during the Carter administration. It still had a faded price tag from Woolworth's on one of the tubular curves of a leg.

She sat there watching the early morning sun chase shadows across the river. The tall pines to either side of her waterfront seemed to reach out and touch the opposite bank; smoke curled up and away from her fingertips.

She would never finish the pack.

She had a sip of Nestea with barely a tremble in her hand. The pain medication had started its uphill labor, but hadn't quite crested the hill. Ice struck the sides of the glass in time with the small shakes. Condensation dripped and ran down to the paper towel she kept wrapped around the sides and bottom. With a keen perception of everything around her, inside her, she savored the running coolness as it made its way down and in.

Her meds no longer quite kept the pain away, but they rounded the sharp edges into a dull throb. So, she took what joy she could, as she could. A cold sip of iced tea and a last pull on that Virginia tobacco, and what was cooled was warmed again.

Subtle reds blended with the oranges and brighter yellows against brown river water. She saw a flash of silver as a fish jumped just outside the reach of a pineshadow, and her eyes followed the ripples as they began to spread and be carried away on the current.

Those ripples still stir, decades later.

Every day, turtles lined up like soldiers to sunbathe on a deadfall just slightly upstream and across the way from her dock. She was happy to see them keeping to their routine; for them, nothing had changed, or would.

For them, this was just one more morning of many.

For her, this was the last day on the banks of that river.

Her husband was sitting on the steel staircase that led down into the water, quietly observing. He didn't notice the turtles. He didn't care for the jumping fish or the game of chase being played by the sun and the tall pines. His rheumy blue eyes, so strong and cold and hard, wept in a constant silent stream.

He watched her watching. He saw her smile through the pain, he saw her shoulders hitch and heave every time she swallowed or breathed too deeply. He heard her breath catch and the ice clink in her shaky grip, and he was content to watch her watching this place she loved so dearly.

He sat, and he wept.

She heard him stifle a sob, and she knew that it was time.

"Help me up, Mack, I think we should go."

With that, the weight of the strong but slightly built man shifted the balance on the floating dock as he moved to support his wife.

He helped her inside so that she could put the final touches on the last bag she would ever need to pack. While she worked, she breathed heavily, and gave him a few final instructions for how things should be. He tried to help her, but she insisted that he let her do what she could.

With dignity, despite the pain that stooped her, she looked around her home once more. Slowly, she walked out on her own power, determined not to spoil that cherished place with the stigma of dying there.

She had spent her last morning in that little piece of Heaven. In two days time, she would trade it in for the real thing.

He never stepped foot on that staircase or floating dock again.

When a child is brought into this world, parents rejoice. They cuddle, hold, murmur sweet words, hum or sing a song. Grandparents go into that stage of their own, a second "grandparenthood" and coo and make weird noises to see their grandchild giggle.

It's a celebration.

Why should death be any different? Those who were friends, those we loved and were in love with. When they left us, they left a mark on us to remember. Not to mourn deeply, though we do.

The Greeks as far back as I can remember, celebrate the passing with a party with food and music. They dance, they sing. They tell stories of the one who has gone to that "better place".

In Mexico the "Day of the Dead", the celebration is alive with music, dancing, and decadent food and drinks. Since family members welcome their deceased loved ones as guests, families prepare their loved ones' favorite foods for the reunion.

In Ghana, Africa. they have what they call "fantasy coffins". These are shaped into whatever profession they did before death. Such as an airplane for a deceased pilot or a truck for a truck driver. Coffins are made in various shapes and just not because of their work. For instance, one that is oval resembles wisdom, or a lion, fearless and brave. They also have music and dancing and even the pallbearers will dance while carrying the coffin.

These are just a few that celebrate the passing of someone in their life.

It's important to understand from an early age, we will not live forever but it doesn't mean we can't continue to live within others who remember their life and what they did and what they stood for.

It's a celebration.

The image quote is by Sadhguru. He is the founder of the Isha Foundation in India.

We remember

our version of you.

Conversations

gave us a clue to

your point of view.

In your everyday, some

of us grew up,

taking in your wisdom,

learning to live

and, like you, became strong.

Our core we share.

Make the new ones aware.

On this day we remember los muertos

But who remembers the forgotten?

Did she have a pretty face?

Did he have a laugh like a lark?

Well, we'll never know

All that remains is the shine in the boy's eye

That he inherited from his grandmother

Fifty generations before

And the girl's big smile

That she inherited from a father

Far away in the forgotten muertos

All it takes is a single memory

And we live on eternally

La cara bonito

La risa de alondra

Motifs por los muertos

His name was Louis and he was a cute little boy. He had big brown eyes and deep dimples. He sported a buzz haircut. Always wore pearl snapped cowboy shirts, cuffed blue jeans and black with white striped track shoes. He looked like a typical kid but he really never had a chance to be one.

He had the misfortune of being from the "wrong" side of town. For the life of me how a town with a little more than 4,000 residents could have any side was always puzzling. But...it was the proverbial right or wrong side of the tracks kind of town. His Dad had passed away when he was younger leaving his Mom with three boys to raise - Louis being the youngest.

I remember his mom being very sweet. She was a waitress at a local restaurant. Looking back now I understand why she looked exhausted. I can't even imagine how she did all that she did. She was thin and almost fragile looking. She never remarried.

Louis and I started first grade together and were in the same class. I remember so vividly the first day when recess came and everyone ran down the old concrete steps that led down to the playground. Our elementary school was my Dad's old High School. Those old concrete steps were actually the old football stadium seating. Anyway....as we all ran down the steps I remember the teacher yelling for Louis....I remember he turned around...the next thing I knew he was sitting on an old bench. Louis had a heart condition and was unable to participate in the activities that his classmates just took for granted. Throughout the elementary grades I have such clear memories of him easing his way off that bench so many times, being so close to breaking into a sprint but always being called back by our PE teacher before he could join his classmates in play. His shoulders always slumped as he walked back in defeat. I remember him being very fidgety in class and that he nervously bit his nails. I remember how he struggled to read and that he would turn red when a kid would give a low giggle as he attempted to pronounce the words in those old readers.

School ended and summer came and went too quickly. When school started there was no Louis. Someone said he and his family had moved to San Antonio and life went on...as it does. I never heard his name mentioned again. His classmates continued on and graduated high school and headed off to college or work. Time moved on and I had my own little boy...I was home visiting my parents and decided to take flowers out to my grandmother's grave. Normally I would have exited out the same way I entered but it was such a beautiful day that I decided to take the long way back so instead of going straight I veered left and I remember when I turned the sun reflecting so hard off of this massive granite tombstone. I had never seen one so big or so pretty in that small old cemetery. As I slid my Ray-Bans down - I noticed the last name on the stone's backside that was facing me - it was a fairly common surname in the area. I pulled my car over and walked around to the front...I saw his full name on the front....and thought no, that just can't be...I looked at the date of birth then to his date of death. He had passed away about three weeks after our High School Graduation. He was only eighteen years old. I made a turn that I didn't plan on taking and saw something so beautiful under a majestic old oak that it captured my attention. I cried and had to pause as all the memories of him came rushing back.

The craziest thing is that in a small town everyone knows everything, yet no one knew he had passed and had been brought back home. Well, to a place that I am sure didn't feel very homelike to him or his family. I called friends and went and talked to some who still lived there. No one knew a thing. Some even asked, "who"? How can that even be possible? He was not insignificant and I have thought long and hard about that most beautiful large granite stone that sits on a high ground area under a beautiful oak. I believe that he runs those streets of gold as often as he wants. He never grows tired, and he never had the chance to grow old. Hemingway said, "every man has two deaths, when he is buried in the ground and the last time someone says his name." His name was Louis and there are so many out there just like him...we pass them in our rush to do things. We don't take the time to recognize them....we all matter. In honor of Louis and all those lives who didn't get the recognition they deserved in their lifetime we celebrate and remember you. May we be kinder and take the time to acknowledge those we encounter on our ways. It just takes a moment to say "hi" or share a smile.

the city is in bloom

i see everywhere the violet of

jacarandas jacarandas

like a primitive cry

a lamentation

may has finally arrived

pretty may covers the sidewalk

with violet flowers

that stick to the feet

of careless pedestrians

and my grief is violet

like those sticky flowers

i am no longer able to sing

certain songs without crying

without thinking of you of us

your impish smile

your shitty sayings

where are they? where are you?

when will may go away?

i am sick of this month

that i loved long ago

my memories about you float

like debris in the ocean

shipwrecked without anchor, not

cemented like the bricks

of dates, facts, and other random bullshit

may is in

grief is in flower

is in may is

in violet is in

you

and i want to flee from

this violet month that

this month without you where