Mexican tradition holds that people die three deaths: The first death is when our bodies cease to function, when our hearts no longer beat of their own accord, when our gaze no longer has depth or weight, when the space we occupy slowly loses its meaning. The second death comes when the body is lowered into the ground, returned to mother earth, out of sight. The third death, the most definitive death, is when there is no one left alive to remember us.
November is, for me, forever affiliated with death. I was fifteen when Nana died. It was November 1, 1980 and until then I had known death only superficially. Most of my grandparents had already died. I don't remember them, not really. I have vague impressions, but mostly other people’s memories masquerading as my own.
But Nana, Nana was different; she was in my life every day. We never lived more than two blocks away and it was a rare day when I didn’t see her. It became more than once a day when she finally left Mozart Street and moved across the street from Casa the Crazy.
Nana was a hard, unyielding woman. She was raised in foster care after the death of her parents and sister and life was not always very kind. I have memories of her both good and not so good. Most of my favorite Nana memories center on summers at Newfound Lake in New Hampshire. Up-country.
She kept a cabin, well cabin is a generous term since what it was really just a raised platform with four walls, a tarp ceiling, and three “rooms” delineated with fishing line and shower curtains. Quainter and cozier than I’m describing. It had a propane stove, a couple of bunk beds and a kitchen table. I learned how to play cards at that table, by candlelight. I also learned that I hated peas and had a bit of a stubborn streak.
We, the sisters and the cousins, spent most our time at Newfound Lake swimming, playing in the sand pit, exploring the woods, hauling water from the well, and just being kids. I remember camp fires and marshmallow roasts; Uncle Wally telling ghost stories and scaring us half to death; daylight trips to the outhouse; never – ever – after dark; diving off the big rock for Uncle Bobby’s change.
November makes me miss them all. It’s not grief that November provides but introspection. Autumn seems suited to melancholy. When the dead demand their due. We’ve lost so many, family and friends. Aunt Chris, Dad’s sister and a major player in the Joan of Arc saga (click here). Chris died a few short months after Nana. In the middle of her life. She was only forty when she died, younger than I am now and a mother of six.
Uncle Bobby. He broke my heart. We watched him die. Slowly. He never gave up and he never let you know how sick he really was. He was my godfather and one of the giants of my youth. I miss him still. His joy. His smile. His laugh.
Then Walter, Uncle Wally to just about everyone in the world. He was the best, quick-witted and funny as hell. He also gave me my love for funk music. Funny, I never think of him with sadness, thinking of Wally brings a smile every single time.
We’ve lost Dad and Al and Claire and Bernie. We lost Diane and Hazel. We lost Grandma Doris and Uncle Jim. Aunt Mary and so many others. We've lost fathers, brothers, mothers, sisters, husbands, wives, children and friends.
Each death diminishes our daily lives but expands our capacity for living. For where we find heartache and sorrow we also find perseverance and strength. By losing someone we love, we internalize their best features and realize that we get to hold that forever in our hearts. We visit at our leisure. Sure sometimes they demand our attention but generally they are content to wait. Wait for us to pause in our living. Wait for us to realize that they still have lessons to teach us. And because they live in our hearts, we help keep them from the third and final death.
It’s important to remember the dead but more important that we embrace the living.
One is the past, the other the future.
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