How a Mexican tradition I didn't grow up celebrating became part of my everyday life in Canada.
I grew up in Monterrey, Mexico, where Halloween was a much bigger deal in my childhood than DÃa de Muertos. If you know Monterrey, you probably understand why. We're so close to the United States, geographically and culturally, that I sometimes joke that Monterrey is practically an American city that happens to be in Mexico. Obviously, I'm exaggerating. A little. But Halloween was the celebration I knew, and although DÃa de Muertos was part of the culture around me, it wasn't something we practiced at home.
Funny enough, it took moving to Canada for me to begin celebrating one of Mexico's most beautiful traditions.
There's something about living away from your country that makes you look at it differently. You begin to appreciate things you barely noticed when you were surrounded by them. The food, the music, the celebrations, the little details that remind you where you came from. Perhaps it's nostalgia, or perhaps distance simply gives you a different perspective. Whatever the reason, after we bought our house, I decided I wanted a little DÃa de Muertos altar in my kitchen.
I started with one photograph, my Güelita Lupita, who passed away in 1999. I arranged a small space for her, and when November 2 came around, I prepared the offerings. But when the celebration ended, I never took her photograph down. It stayed there, and the following year I decorated the little corner again.
Over time, other photographs joined hers. Popsi in 2014, my Güelito Miguelito in 2015, Busi and Big Grampy in 2018, Grandma in 2020, and my TÃo Juanjo in 2021. What began as a little altar for my grandmother slowly became a place for both sides of our family.
And somewhere along the way, it became something I never expected.
I talk to them.
All of them, actually. Not every day, and certainly not on any particular schedule. Sometimes I'm cooking, or cleaning the counter, or simply walking through the kitchen, and I happen to look at one of the photographs. I make what I jokingly call eye contact, and whoever catches my attention gets a little conversation.
Sometimes I tell my Güelita Lupita that her great-granddaughter is beautiful and funny, or that she would have loved meeting my husband. Sometimes I tell Grandma that the tortillas I just made turned out particularly well. Other times, when I'm worried or uncertain about something, I look at her photograph and ask what she would have done.
There are days when I miss someone terribly, and days when I just want to share something silly. I might tell my grandmother that I'm worried about her daughter, my mother, or complain about something that has been bothering me. Then I turn around, finish whatever I was doing, and carry on with my day.
I realize that probably sounds a little strange. I'm a grown woman having conversations with photographs in her kitchen. But after all these years, it feels perfectly natural to me. It's almost as though someone is there keeping me company while I cook.
I don't expect an answer. I know they're gone. I simply like talking to them, the same way I would if they were sitting at my kitchen table.
And perhaps that's the part of DÃa de Muertos that has become most meaningful to me. The flowers, the candles, the pan de muerto, and the offerings are beautiful, and I love preparing them. But the altar is also a reminder that remembering someone doesn't have to be reserved for anniversaries or special occasions. Sometimes remembering is as ordinary as looking at a photograph and saying hello.
My Güelita Lupita has been gone for more than twenty-five years, and I still find myself wanting her advice. She had a wonderfully practical philosophy about worrying. If something could be fixed, there was no point in worrying because you could do something about it. And if it couldn't be fixed, worrying wouldn't change anything anyway. Excellent advice, although I have spent a considerable portion of my adult life proving that knowing something and actually practicing it are two very different things.
When I was twelve, I traveled with her to Mexico City. I remember watching her walk through the streets with complete confidence, exploring without hesitation. She made me curious about the world, about unfamiliar places, neighborhoods, food, and everything waiting beyond what I already knew. I think a good part of my love of travel began with her.
Sometimes, when I look at her photograph, I wonder what she would think of the life I've built. I wish she could have met my husband and Eliana. I think she would have enjoyed both of them enormously.
My tÃo Juanjo is another person I wish I could have kept around a little longer.
He passed away on November 2, 2021, which means this DÃa de Muertos marks five years without him. I still have trouble believing that much time has passed.
My uncle was also my godfather, and he treated me like the daughter he never had. He had three sons, but apparently he had decided very early in my life that there was room for one more child. When I was a baby, he would tell my mother, "Regálanos a Fabi, regálanos a Fabi."
That never really changed.
Whenever we visited Mexico, one of the first things he'd ask was what his daughter wanted to eat. If I wanted carnitas, he'd make carnitas. If I suggested getting everyone together for dinner, he'd organize it. There was very little I could ask of him that he wouldn't find a way to do.
And when my husband came into the family, my uncle welcomed him like the son-in-law he never had.
Those two got along ridiculously well. My uncle would come looking for my husband and take him off to parties, dances, rodeos, and whatever else was happening that weekend. I would practically hand him over and wish them a good time.
My husband learned one of his favorite philosophies from my uncle: "Más vale pedir perdón que pedir permiso." Better to ask forgiveness than permission. As you can imagine, that was a wonderful influence on our marriage.
When Eliana was little, my uncle even invented a points system for my husband. If he wanted to go out with him, he needed to earn points by changing diapers and helping around the house. My uncle would encourage him to keep collecting points because there was another party or outing he wanted to take him to.
That was my tÃo Juanjo. Loving, generous, mischievous, and always finding ways to bring people together.
The last time I hugged him, I told him we'd see each other soon. I didn't know it would be the last time, and sometimes I still wish I'd held on a little longer. I wish I'd told him how much it meant to me that he always called me his daughter.
But when I look at his photograph now, I don't only remember that goodbye. I remember the food, the laughter, the outings, and the way he made my husband feel like part of the family from the very beginning.
That's what I want my altar to hold. Not just the sadness of losing people, but the pleasure of having known them.
One of my favorite memories connected to our altar involves Eliana. After we lost Grandma, my husband's mother, I was preparing the offerings for DÃa de Muertos when Eliana asked if she could make some drawings for her.
Of course she could.
I remember thinking that I would put the drawings away that night and tell her the next morning that Grandma had come to collect them. It was a small, sweet moment, and one that made me appreciate the tradition in a completely different way.
Eliana is growing up in Canada, with a childhood very different from mine. She doesn't have the same relationship with Mexican traditions that I do, and I don't expect her to. For now, she participates in little ways. Sometimes she makes a drawing or helps place a flower. She knows what the altar means to me, even if it hasn't become something she feels particularly attached to herself.
I don't know whether she'll continue the tradition when she's older. Maybe she will, maybe she won't. That's her decision.
One thing on my bucket list is to experience DÃa de Muertos in central Mexico, where some communities create extraordinary celebrations, altars, and displays. I'd love to take Eliana someday, to let her experience that side of Mexico and see how much beauty and care people put into remembering those who have died. Perhaps it will leave an impression on her. Perhaps it won't. Either way, I'd love for us to experience it together.
What matters to me is that she knows these people were part of her family's story. That she hears their names, learns something about who they were, and understands why their photographs have a place in our kitchen.
Every November 2, I make the altar especially beautiful. I arrange flowers, light candles, and bring out the pan de muerto, fruit, sweets, drinks, and other offerings. I enjoy preparing it, thinking about each person, and participating in a tradition that connects me to Mexico even while I live far away.
And then November 3 comes, and the kitchen goes back to normal.
The offerings eventually come down, but the photographs stay. They always have.
I go back to making coffee, preparing meals, cleaning counters, and dealing with the usual chaos of family life. Every now and then, one of those familiar faces catches my eye, and I stop for a moment to tell them something.
Maybe I miss them. Maybe I need their advice. Maybe the tortillas turned out particularly well.
Then I go back to whatever I was doing.
For me, that's what my little altar has become. A way of honoring a beautiful Mexican tradition, of remembering the people I love, and of making sure they remain part of the life I'm still living.
Love, Fabi
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