Death is a Party: Día de Muertos
“Mexicans are familiar with death; they joke about it, caress it, sleep with it, and celebrate it. It is one of their favorite playthings and their most steadfast love.”
-Octavio Paz
Photos: Lissette Storch – Puebla, Mexico
Death is a verb and a noun.
In Mexico, we’ve personified death, dressing her up and giving her endearing nicknames—le hablamos de tú*.
Death is a she.
Originally, sugar skulls were crafted as a reminder of death’s ever-present nature in the dimension of the living, lurking around every corner. They’re just one of many expressions of our inevitable encounter with “the lady of many names”: La Catrina (“the rich or elegant one”), La Tía de las Muchachas (“the girls’ aunt”), La Fría (“the cold one”), La Novia Blanca (“the white bride”).
Death roams among us.
Death is life.
Like any Mexican holiday, food takes the spotlight on Día de Muertos. Alongside pan de muerto—”bread of the dead”—and cempasúchil flowers, sugar skulls are staples of the celebration. Everything about Día de Muertos has intention and weight: the bread symbolizes the circle of life and communion with the dead, while the flowers pay homage to the fleeting nature of existence.
In rural Mexico, this ritual blends form and meaning in a way that’s tangible and sacred.
Growing up in the city, I mostly watched from the sidelines. It wasn’t until my grandmother passed and my uncle and mother took on the responsibility of honoring this three-thousand-year-old tradition that I got pulled in, finding myself increasingly fascinated by it.
Year after year, my family embarks on a journey to a small village on the outskirts of Puebla,
where we build an ofrenda in honor of my grandmother, great-grandmother, and other beloved relatives. These cherished souls are remembered with offerings of their favorite dishes. My grandmother, who had a passion for cooking, is honored not only with food but also with her favorite kitchen tools, carefully placed around her photograph.
Candles serve a dual role, symbolizing both hope and faith while lighting the way for the departed as they make their descent. Water, too, is placed to quench their thirst and symbolize purity. Through these ofrendas, we keep their memory close and call upon their spirits.
The celebration continues at the cemetery, where the living and the departed meet to share a meal, listen to music, and enjoy fireworks.
For a few days in November, in Mexico, death is a party.
* ‘‘Hablar de tú’ means to address someone informally, in contrast to the more respectful ‘usted,’ which is used for strangers or those who haven’t given permission for familiarity.
