The veil is thin right now, some might say. The veil between the living and the dead. The liminal space between body and spirit.
The week began with Samhain (pronounced Sow-in), the beginning of Celtic winter and a day to honor ancestors. Today is All Souls Day and the second day of Dia de los Muertos. The former, of Christian origin, a time to coax stuck souls out of purgatory. The latter, a family reunion, if you will. Ancient as the Aztecs. A celebration of remembrance, a melding (versus a separation) of life and death. Offerings through food, flowers, photos, candles. A dedication, a meditation. Saying their names out loud for everyone to hear.
The veil is as thin as I can remember at any time of my life. A spider web of grief covering the entire world, stretching from one end to the other.
The veil is thin in Ukraine. The veil is thin in Israel and Gaza. The veil is thin in Lahaina. Lewiston. Uvalde. Buffalo. Highland Park. Monterey Park. Nashville. Allen.
How do we honor the dead who had no say in their death? When they are too many to count?
We start right here.
I can see each of them in my mind’s eye.
Charles, who signed off last week, one day shy of his ninety-third birthday, on the eve of a lunar eclipse. Father, Pop Pop, torchbearer of Ellen. Army veteran, lover of a Costco hotdog. Mensch.
Ellis, who traveled the world with his beloved M. Father to two VIPs. Gramps. Philosopher, photographer, dyed-in-the-wool Eagles fan.
Ralph, writer, thinker, advocate, champion of the voiceless. Friend who made a point to check in.
Frances, painter, jewelry maker, metalsmith, roller blader, a maneful of strawberry blonde curls, the skinniest jeans, the most beautiful smile, a lover of snacks and small bites.
Hilton, piano man. A chewer of the fat. Observateur. Storyteller, soothsayer. The best piece of work.
Kim R, master of gathering and connecting people, idea manifester. Eater of books. Reading evangelist. Gardener, jam maker, fairy duster. Laser wit.
My father, John, and his father, John. John Sr.’s father, Richard, and Richard’s father, William. William’s father, Richard, who sailed from Derry in 1831.
Helen Ekman and Susie Jones, Sarah McClellan and Catharine Speer, the women who married the O’Donnel men.
Catharine’s first daughter, Annie O’Donnel, who sailed with her parents to America.
Cousin Richard Lincoln, a Pennsylvania Railroad executive who lived in the city of Lancaster in 1888, just a mile from where we live. For Richard’s girls — Ruth, Jean, Vera, and Lois — who all graduated from Smith College in the nineteen-hundred-teens, before women had the right to vote.
Cindy, my father’s sister, born just three years before me. Whose spirit I felt all day in New Orleans, hours I would learn the news. We listened to the Bay City Rollers on her record player in the basement of the row house on McKinley Street. Went to Greece when she was twenty and I was seventeen.
Mary Emma, my maternal grandmother. A gifted artist who lived a life walled off from her kin. Whose primary relationship was her art. (More on her soon.)
Who are you thinking about today? Add their name in the comments. Tell us about them.
A few words, for times like these. In the past I’ve shared this privately with friends in mourning. But with the veil, delicate and sheer, this is my offering to you, and yours, and for the ones we love but never knew.
Port-Mortem Something Salve
angels pass
when you don't look
do their best
to guide you
shelter you
extol the virtues of a mango
hold your hand when you don't ask
listen to your muffled grumbles
in the middle of the night
say it's alright
coax you into slumber
protect you from the thunder
and the confusion
that sometimes comes with the break of day
encourage clarity
through the haze
whisper songs
of seeming nothingness
but those are the lines
you seem to remember
as you wake
and take a shower
angels pass
when you're not looking
Elsa Leedom Pancoast Taylor
Elsa Pauline Bonsall Pancoast
Seth Ellsworth Pancoast, Sr.
Seth Ellsworth Pancoast, Jr.
Roberta Jean Kelly Smith
Howard Smith
Arsen Santighian
That you wrote this when it's most needed is just that hand helping when we last expect it. Thank you.
Madeline Joan Snyder (nee Chapman), aka Joanie, Aunt Joan, Mimi (to her adoring grandkids). I called her Mom as soon as she taught me to speak, and sing, and write, and act silly af. She adopted me at 8 weeks old in February of 1966. Not sure which she loved more: the written word (she taught HS English); or singing (she sang in choir, in community theatre and Madrigals, and produced and directed high school musicals in her first job out of college, teaching in Johnstown, PA.
She shared her passions with her family. I carried my taciturn father's last name, UT I was my mother's son. I was her Sunshine, and she told me many times before she died this year at 89 that I had saved her life. I'll never know exactly how, but she said it with deepest conviction and love.
Her last words to me were, "I like your haircut." We fought many battles over the length of my hair in the 70s and 80s. Nature finally decided on the current length. She had a sparkle in her eye when she said that. She died the following day, with my sisters and I holding her hands.
Oh she was spit and vinegar, too, but her heart accommodated everyone she ever met.
I sprinkled her ashes all over the small coalmining town town she grew up in and loved; like a grim pixie, I was. It's a ghost town now, anyway.
Thanks for teaching me to live joyfully and open hearted.
I love you, Mom. RIP