The first time I celebrated Day of the Dead was with you. We went to Mamo's house in Arcata. There was a party. The backyard was adorned with lights, candles, and photos of the dead. Mothers, grandfathers, uncles, cousins...old photos of old times. We danced in the kitchen, cheek to cheek, hip to hip. We ate homemade food. We laughed. It was a lovely evening.
Tonight we ate Mexican food in your honor. Yes, we ate Mexican food in Kosovo. Despite the thousands of miles between the two countries, the food was remarkably acceptable and passed for better than the bad Mexican food in New York City or on Giuntoli Lane. Yes, it was better than that.
We ate in your honor, and also laid out cigarettes for Richard's grandfather and my dad. The conversation went in many directions. My two, heavy-handed margaritas got me talking dirty, as to be expected, so Day of the Dead became Day of the Dead, and sex. We talked. We shared stories. We didn't know what to leave for the girl who was vaginally fisted by a friend who was only to die just a few months later by the hands of her drug dealer. No, we didn't know what to leave for her. So we left random things- a button, a business card, a wooden bead...
People die, huh? Maybe someday you'll tell me all about it. In the meantime, I'll have this- my thoughts mingling with the thoughts of others on the subject of loss and living. I'll have my margaritas dedicated to you. I"ll have my memory, despite its unreliability. I'll have something that, although cannot replace you, will allow me to move on. What is it? I don't know. Something that grows stronger with your absence. It's the thing that prevents me from jumping off a bridge, or jumping in front of a subway train. Maybe it's a gift from you. Maybe.
