In the Mexican tradition, we don’t banish death, we bring her to the table. We give her a face. A calavera. We decorate her and talk to her. We remember her, because the dead are not gone. They live on in memory and also in the shape of who we became because of them. In every person they touched. Every path they opened or closed. In the joy they gave, and the damage too. They are not absent. They are layered into us.
Death reveals the truth of life: nothing lasts, and that’s why it matters. She shows us that meaning isn’t found in clinging, but in continuity. In honoring. In creating something with what was left behind.
Without death, there would be no longing. No poetry. No temples. No art. Death gives depth to life. It sharpens love. It lays the foundation for every truth worth carrying.
And so, we give her a form. A calavera. A face to speak to. Not to fear her, but to remember who we are, and why we’re here.
