New Traditions - A Dia de los Muertos Story

Carolina stood in the middle of her Florida apartment, surrounded by shopping bags from Michael's and Publix. She felt both nervous and excited, wondering if she was doing the right thing and if she would get it right. The late October Doral heat pressed against her windows as the sound of airplanes destined for Miami International airport breezed by. A YouTube tutorial on creating ofrendas played on her phone. The phone, propped on her dining room table by sugar skulls and stacks of old photos she had selected for the occasion. Growing up, her mother had always kept their Colombian traditions alive - masses, novenas, black dress and black coffee and prayers, many prayers. Now, at twenty-eight, she found herself drawn to a different way of remembering. A new way, from a familiar but foreign tradition.

"This feels weird, doesn't it, Pookie?" she said to the empty room, imagining her departed Chow Chow mix's gentle eyes. Since moving into her own apartment a few years ago, she'd watched her neighbors celebrate Día de los Muertos with a joy that seemed to defy grief itself. This Mexican tradition was different from her approach to remembering loved ones - solemn prayers and sadness - not better or worse, just different. And after a difficult year, different was what she felt she needed.

She trembled slightly, out of emotion, as she unfolded the lavender colored tablecloth. This shade of purple was both her and her grandmother's favorite color – "Morado real," she used to say, "como las montañas al atardecer." Carolina hadn't been able to fly to Bogotá for her grandmother's funeral and has since then felt a void deep inside.

"I hope you don't mind that I'm doing this differently abuela, tia." she murmured, arranging the cloth over a hallway table. The building's AC hummed, competing with the Latin music drifting up from the Cuban restaurant downstairs and the distant sounds of kids playing. This was Doral – a enclave of Latin American cultures stitched together under the Florida sun.

From another bag, she pulled out candles and picture frames where she would put the photos she had selected of her family members who had passed. In one of the pictures, her abuela was laughing at her 90th birthday party; in another her tia holding up a glass of red wine at her 50th. Snack, both Colombian and American and bottles of wine on the table behind her. Carolina placed all the items carefully on the makeshift altar, then added another of Pookie, spotted tongue lolling happily during their last long jog.

Rosa, her friend who was Mexican had helped her shop for the items. She explaining the significance of each element in detail. "It's not about copying exactly," Rosa had said, squeezing her hand at Micheal's. "It's about creating a space for memory and love. Make it yours."

So Carolina did. Instead of traditional pan de muerto, she placed her aunt's favorite, buneulo and her grandmother's favorite postre. Next to Pookie's photo, she set his favorite Sunday morning treat, Arepas, he loved them. She added picture of Sasha, her loved Husky, uncles reading glasses, her grandfathers beans (he made a mean Medellin style beans), their favorite novels, and a small bottle of Colombian coffee – not the ubiquitous Starbucks she'd was forced to drink sometimes, but the good stuff from home she made in her Breville espresso machine.

The marigolds were a must; Rosa insisted – "They guide the spirits," she'd explained. Carolina arranged them in an arc, their orange petals bright against the purple cloth. Their scent mixed with the familiar smell of coffee, creating something new, something that was neither entirely Mexican nor Colombian, but uniquely her own.

As sunset approached, the light through her window cast long shadows across the ofrenda. She wondered what life would be like if abuela, and tia were still around. What if Pookie and Sasha could live thirty years and play with her current dogs. Her phone buzzed – messages from her WhatsApp family group reminiscing of the times Anita sat there and took her time to eat her red snapper at the Thai restaurant. She loved seafood and enjoyed every last bit of the fish. Carolina sat cross-legged on the floor, the tears were falling freely now. It wasn't sad tears but tears of joy and remembrance. For the first time since their deaths, she felt like she could reach across the universe, across the pain of loss, across the boundary between life and the other unknown world itself.

"Anita" she whispered, "I know this isn't how we usually do things. But I'm learning that there are many ways to keep love alive." She paused, smiling through tears. "And Pookie, mi bebe, I brought you arepitas."

The candles flickered their steady, burning light, but in their glow, Carolina felt something special, emotional, and authentic taking root – a new way of honoring, a new tradition, born from loss but not in sadness but growing toward hope, a mix of new and old.

Outside her window, a car passed playing reggaeton. She imaged that in a different time her abuela would have danced the night away to the beat, cane and all. In the distance she heard, what sounded like an abuela, called children in for dinner. Life and death, past and present, Colombia, USA, and Mexico – all of it swirling together in the gathering dusk of a South Florida evening.

She reached for her phone, wiped the tear falling down her cheek away, took a photo of the ofrenda, and sent it to her family's WhatsApp group with the message: "Different, but still us. Still love. Still missing them but happy for the memories we shared." Then she settled in for the night and with the comfort of her dogs, Carolyn was ready to share stories with the spirits, whether they came on paths of marigolds or carried by the scent of Colombian coffee it didn't matter. She knew they would visit and she felt their love in the air. A fresh start of remembrance.