Halloween. Día de los Muertos. The season of the undead, of ghosts come to visit the living. The stories we tell this time of year speak of forbidden desires and longing for that which we cannot let go. The fear of ghosts we felt as children grows into a thrill to think maybe those that have left us aren’t really gone, that maybe they can come back to give us messages, check up on us, or just to have a good time in the way you can only on Earth.
I have always had a skepticism about the afterlife, but when my mother was dying, I held her thin hand and asked for her to come visit me after she had gone.
If you can, anyway that you can, I want you to come to me and let you know that you are there.
She amused me and said she would try.
She hasn’t done a very good job.
I live 40 miles from Mexico, and calavera skulls stare at me from store windows. Miniature skeletons drink alcohol or play mariachi tunes. Carved pumpkins glow yellow in the dying sunlight. It is the season to celebrate the haunting and the haunted, but I am not one of them.
She simply isn’t here.
I don’t hear her voice, feel her sweet presence.
She is gone.
In this season of ghosts, I wish my dear one would visit. I wish I was one of the haunted.