All Saints’ Day is a national holiday in my country of origin, a day where we commemorate saints and those who have gone before us.
Driving to our ancestors’ graves,
an annual ritual revered by my family.
Floral arrangements of evergreens,
small red candles to be placed in the lanterns.
Hand tools to groom the places
the gardener had overlooked,
and the fieldstone
engraved with my grandparents’ names.
The gravesite a final haven,
knowing they would be joined again
with their parents,
buried here before them.
When the candle was lit,
and its flickering flame
danced in the wind,
we folded our hands in prayer.
The Lord’s Prayer flowed from our lips.
Many years of repetition in catholic school
had conditioned us,
and the words came effortlessly.
We looked at each other,
tears on my mother’s face
as she mourned the loss
of her family, gone for so long.
Solemnly we left the hillside,
still caught in the sadness.
A child’s giggle held inside
slowly broke the heaviness
as we drove to town
to visit the living.
The aunts, uncles, and cousins
had gathered in the valley below,
recalling stories of the ones we just left,
and filling in the gaps since our last visit a year ago.
Living across the ocean
makes an annual visit home
to honor my ancestors
an impossible feat.
I still light a red candle
place it among evergreens from my garden
in front of my parents’ picture,
reciting an ‘Our Father…’
while tears make their way down my cheeks.
Hiking Poet 