November 1 is celebrated as Dia de las muertes = Day of the Dead. Depicted beautifully in the movie Coco, it honors our ancestors. We call their names and share their stories. Many people do so while sitting on the graves of their loved ones.

I’ve been researching how I can obtain Canadian duel citizenship these last weeks leading to an uncertain mid-term elections in the US. I’m in Texas, a state that has actively let any decency erode and become hateful of others. Almost anyone is an “other” here now. We have lost our Soul.

My husband pursued Ireland as an option, but his relatives lived there too long ago to easily apply.

Then I remembered my paternal grandfather was born in Canada. The grandfather who we all scape-goated as being the reason anyone of that side of the family had problems. After all, he was an alcoholic, a crooked union organizer in the 1930’s, an angry man and who knows what else.

As I researched his history, I realized so many things I never heard: his mother and a sister died when he was young; his father was a laborer which probably meant work and money were scarce; he immigrated to the States in his early twenties where he managed to create a modest life with a house, wife and four children who all attended college.

More and more, I felt like I was just using him to gain Canadian citizenship. Selfish.

More and more, I felt like I was sensing him. His emotions.

Without realizing what day it was, I sat down, lit a candle and let myself receive anything Grandpa wanted me to know. It happened to be November 1, Day of the Dead.

I felt this very scared, sweet little boy who just wanted to be loved. He never felt it while on Earth this time.

So, I wrote a prayer for him and created a special sigil just for him to say, “I hear you. I see you. I love you. I’m sorry I adopted the family habit of ridicule and abandonment.”

I’ve been thinking of him all week.

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