Every November first, the smell of marigolds and the sound of soft music filled Isabel’s home in Oaxaca, Mexico.
Because that was Día de los Muertos — the Day of the Dead — the festival when people believed that the spirits of loved ones returned to visit their families for one night.
Isabel was eight years old. This was the first year she was old enough to build an ofrenda — an offering altar — by herself. It was for Abuelito, her grandfather, who she had loved best in the world, and who had passed away the year before.
“What do I need, Abuela?” she asked her grandmother.
Grandma’s white hair was pinned neatly. She smiled. “Things that Abuelito loved. Flowers. Food. A photo. Candles to light his way home.”
Isabel and her grandmother went to the market. It was a riot of color — mountains of orange marigolds, painted sugar skulls, masks and costumes in every bright shade.
“The marigolds are important,” Grandma explained. “Their smell is strong. Spirits can follow the scent to find their way.”
Isabel picked up a marigold and smelled it — sharp and warm at once.
She bought flowers and candles, and asked her grandmother to help her buy tamales, wrapped in banana leaves — Abuelito’s favorite.
Back home, she set up the altar. His photo in the center, smiling so wide his eyes nearly closed — the smile he gave whenever she did something that made him laugh. She arranged marigolds around it, set the tamales in front, placed his favorite morning coffee glass beside them, and put his old work shoes — still in the house — at the base.
Finally, the candles. Isabel lit them herself with small hands that trembled slightly.
“Ready,” she whispered.
Her father sat beside her. “Abuelito would be so happy to see this.”
“But he can’t see it anymore,” Isabel said, her voice wavering.
“He can,” her father said softly. “On this festival, we believe those we love haven’t truly gone. They’ve moved somewhere else. And tonight they return — not because they have to, but because of love.”
Isabel looked at the photo. In it, Abuelito’s smile was so wide it made his eyes go crinkly at the corners. She knew that smile. She’d seen it her whole life.
“I miss him,” she said.
“Abuelito misses you too,” Grandma said from the corner of the room.
That evening the whole family gathered around the altar. Grandma told stories — Abuelito as a young man working the cornfields, his wedding day, the day Isabel’s father was born, the day Isabel was born. Stories Isabel had never heard before.
She listened to all of them. In her mind, a picture built of Abuelito in the years before she knew him.
Before bed, she sat alone in front of the altar for a moment.
“Abuelito,” she whispered. “If you come tonight, please eat the tamales. Grandma made them. They’re really good.”
The candle flame flickered.
Isabel smiled. She didn’t know if it was just a breeze or something more. But she didn’t need to know. It felt right either way.
A lesson from the festival: Día de los Muertos teaches that remembering those we love with joy and beautiful stories is the best way to keep them in our hearts. Death isn’t an ending — it’s love in a different form.
