Because Dia de Los Muertos is a Day for Unearthing Memories

What I wrote two years ago exactly, having run home to Buffalo for a few months.

We've lit up the night as if it were an unoccupied country.

everything in its right place. fate? this morning, at 7:15 am, i tiptoed with soft feet into a comfortable room bathed in nothing but the light of nine tea lights arranged in a circle on the floor, a circle of flames that in their natural mirth and movement mirrored our circle of personalities, positioned around them in focus and relaxation. we sat through the dark with this company, something organic and animate beyond us, to remind us that life can mean a lot of different things.

today is the day of the dead, and perhaps because of this, i've been thinking about mary kiefer even more than usual. the gutteral stops in my emotional momentum, today, have been both uncommonly peaceful, and dedicated, unconsciously, to my happiest memories of her. a year and a month ago i flew home, shaken to the core, and stepped inside a catholic church for the first time ever to participate in her funeral service. i had tried to self-medicate my shock and guilt with onions (to make me cry) and white russians (to make me numb), and neither had done what they were supposed to - but it turned out that the most natural thing was to be standing in the back of the church between salma and my mother, sometimes gripping hands and often gripping the back of the pew, and listening to each person who spoke remember what we all remembered the most vividly - the tenor of her laugh. since i've been home, i've been thinking about her a lot. sometimes i create scenes with her in my head. she was one part of my adult buffalo support system that i knew was built on both mutual affection and intuitive connection, and that i knew would always be part of my life no matter how much i changed and what i was doing.

things come together. this natural/unnatural morning circle of light, the playing of kid a and amnesiac through and through, the unconscious wearing of the earrings she gave me when i graduated, the sound of her laughter spinning through my head in moments of inertia.

night falls, and the power goes out. my mother and i are drinking cheap white wine and cooking risotto and laughing and taking pictures in the kitchen. we go to the dining room and fetch a whole bank of candles, and light them, every surface covered in moving light. it's still darker than our modern eyes are used to, and we're a little tipsy. we keep bumping into each other. we run out into the street to see how many houses have lights out - the whole block is pitch black, but only on our side of the street. it's remarkable how many different things you have to pay attention to to navigate the pitch black. more deliberate movements, more reliance on touch. mama gets excited; begins to tell me stories about long hard winters and days without power - the blizzard of 77, and the october 13th storm two years ago, the storm that killed all the trees. i love these kinds of stories.  barbara's lease was up and we had to move her, even though there was a driving ban. we used sleds, it took us three whole days, barely sleeping. we went outside and put snow in ziplocs, packing it around the food to keep some things cold. we carried candles up to bed with us. the house is quieter without the hum of appliances.

we set the table and drink and eat, trying hard not to tip our hair or sleeves into flame or wax. the food tastes more in the dark. better with the company of candles.