Dia de los muertos

I place the marigolds on the altar and pick up my camera. I take a picture of the beautiful arrangement of fresh produce from the market and the rusted trumpet. When I study the picture I feel you are there telling me the lighting is off just a bit, so I pull down my orange curtains and snap another photo.

"Perfect, papa."

My callused hands find the blank paper and create rivers and streams of ink across its perfect surface. I write until every trickle of ink is placed flawlessly. I then read my work out loud to you, "I remember I remember, I promise I'll always remember. The way you wore your socks inside out. I'll remember your smell of fresh mangos and bananas. I can still feel your freshly shaven face and your fruit tie. What if your voice still lingers in my mind, the shape of it weaving around my fingers, spilling out of this pen. Your abstract smell of black and white, ink and paper, fruits and all. You make me smile today and remember all the others." 

I am content, so I gently lift a mango sitting next to a picture of you and let the sticky juices run down my fingers, just like you would have.