Today is All Saint’s Day — a Christian festival in honor of all the saints, known and unknown. This year, I remember my mother, who died last January 6. I miss her. I wish I had known her better. I wish she had known me better.

DAY OF THE DEAD by Barbara Crooker

November 1st, the veil thinner, and we remember
those who’ve gone to the other side. Don’t worry,
I say, I’ll be there soon. But for now, I mark the presence
of their absence, an ache in the throat, a finger
on memory’s pulse. Light candles to keep out the dark,
to mark a path, should they wish to return. The floating world
shimmers and ebbs. I’d like to cross over, just for one hour,
see my mother, hold my baby, talk to Clare. Perched on our shoulders,
the dead ride with us, teetering like pyramids of water skiers, forming
enormous wings. Their words, though, remain inaudible. Cold syllables.
They scratch maps in frost on dark windows, but no one can read them.

Cross the threshold. This night is ancient and long. Whisper in my ear,
tell me what the new year will bring. Look at how the candle uses up
its wax. See how the smoke rises in the hearth.

My mother on her 1st birthday, September 1, 1929.

My mother in April of 1993 when she was 65 — the age I am now.

My mother, December 27, 2004.

My mother, July of 2016.

Whisper in my ear, tell me what the new year will bring.

OPENING POST PHOTO: Greenbelt Lake, 11:30 a.m., Halloween 2018