Blessings to The Ancestors
Who are our ancestors — really?
Are they our parents? Our grandparents? Or are they all the nameless, faceless Humans who contributed to our DNA throughout all of time?
Yes. Yes. And Yes. All. The. Above.
For me — as a member of the oldest surviving generation in my family — I am the matriarch now. I have been since I was thirty-five and my father died. Both my grandfathers died before I was born. My father’s mother had already slipped away into the dementia that runs through his family’s DNA. She died on my first birthday. My mother’s mother never learned English. I never learned Italian — my mother was our translator until my grandmother died when I was eight.
I was named after this woman — a woman with whom I never even really had a spontaneous conversation.
My sense of history is abrupt. My ancestorial tree is full of Humans who were never real to me.
Who were all those who came before me?
The Day of The Dead each year asks to acknowledge them — learn about them — reach out to them.
TO REMEMBER THEM.
Even when we aren’t quite sure who they were. By the simple act of remembering our roots, we honor their existence. We can keep the precious gifts they…
