In Remembrance

For those I knew and loved, and those I love but never knew. Plus: a poem.

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.

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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.

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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