Karly

So, as everyone might know by now, I’m Mexican.
Yes, I’ve admitted to having a posh and possibly unplaceable accent in English, I’ve lived in a few countries, and I’ve had the strange and wonderful experience of both belonging and not belonging in different places at once. But I was born and raised in Mexico. And no matter how fluent I become in other languages, no matter how easily I adapt to new cities or new cultures, there are certain things that hold me firmly in place, that remind me exactly where I come from. One of those things is Día de Muertos.

Every year, as October fades into November, something stirs. Not just a seasonal shift or the familiar craving for something warm and sweet, but something deeper. A memory. A call. A rhythm that lives in the bones. I find myself thinking about cempasúchil flowers, with their bright marigold colour and almost overwhelming scent, the kind that lingers in your clothes and under your fingernails. I think about candles flickering in the dark, the scent of mole warming on the stove, and the low hum of voices sharing stories that start with “do you remember when…” and never quite end. Día de Muertos is not just a date on the calendar. It is a return. A gesture. A promise made to the ones we love and have lost, whether they are long gone or simply out of reach.

If you’ve been following Nonsense & Lit for a while, you might remember that Chels wrote earlier this year about Celebration Day in the UK. It is a thoughtful and respectful occasion, one that encourages people to talk openly about grief, to honour those who have passed, and to sit quietly with their memories. There is something incredibly moving about that kind of space, where sadness is acknowledged and held gently, without the need for spectacle or ceremony. And yet, when I think about how we do things in Mexico, the contrast is striking. Where Celebration Day is hushed, Día de Muertos is loud. Where it is subtle, ours is vivid. Where it is reflective, ours is playful. Not careless, never that, but joyful. Unapologetically alive.

Because in Mexico, we do not treat death as a shadow we fear or an ending we avoid speaking about. Instead, we paint it in colour. We make fun of it. We feed it. We write it into poems. We sing to it. We dance with it. We make room for it at the table. And in doing so, we make peace with it, even when we are not ready. Especially when we are not ready.

Now, before I go any further, I feel like I should clarify something. I love Halloween. Deeply and sincerely. I always have. I grew up attending a bilingual school, where Halloween was very much a Thing, with costume contests and themed class parties, and even outside of school, I was the kind of child who would wear plastic fangs and a tiny vampire cape around the house in the middle of March just because I felt like it. I was not waiting for Halloween. I was Halloween. And to be honest, part of me still is.

But even as a child, I could feel the difference. Halloween was about play, about pretend, about thrills and chills and dramatic costumes and sugar highs. Día de Muertos, on the other hand, was something else entirely. It was not about being scared. It was about being present. It was about warmth, about memory, about sitting with absence and turning it into something full. It was sacred. Not in a stiff or distant way, but in the way your grandmother’s kitchen feels sacred, or the way an old family photo can feel like a prayer.

Día de Muertos, as we know it today, is a blend of pre-Hispanic Indigenous beliefs and Catholic rituals brought by the Spanish. Long before colonisation, many Mesoamerican cultures saw death as part of a cycle, not as an end but as a continuation, a transformation. Death was not something to dread. It was something to prepare for. Something to honour. When Catholicism arrived and brought with it All Saints’ Day and All Souls’ Day, those dates were layered onto existing traditions, and over time, they became something new. Something distinct. Something deeply Mexican.

The result is a two-day celebration. On November 1st, we welcome the souls of children who have passed. On November 2nd, the adults. And for those two days, the veil between worlds feels thinner, like a curtain being pulled back just slightly, letting us reach out to the people we miss and offering them a path to come home.

At the heart of it all is the ofrenda. These altars, built in homes, cemeteries, schools, community centres, and public plazas, are personal and powerful. Some are grand and filled with intricate detail, others are small and quiet, but all are made with the same love. We place photographs of our loved ones on them, surrounded by candles to light the way, salt to purify, and water to quench their thirst after the long journey. There is food, always food, their favourite dishes, sweets, fruit, drinks. Mole and tamales, atole and tequila, cake and cigarettes. There is music, sometimes playing softly in the background, sometimes bursting from speakers. There are marigolds everywhere, bright and fragrant, their petals forming trails to help the souls find their way. There are things they once held, things that made them laugh, things they left behind. And there are messages. Little notes. Prayers. Apologies. Thank-yous.

I remember, as a child, being completely transfixed by the ofrenda my family would make. I was fascinated by the colours, the candles, the little objects. But most of all, I was fascinated by the sweets. There were always candies and chocolates and small treats placed lovingly on the altar, and I wanted to steal one more than anything. I never did. My family told me that once something had been on the altar, once it had been touched by the dead, the flavour would be gone. That the spirits took the essence of it. That it would taste like nothing. I was not sure if I believed it, but I was too afraid to test it. I never stole a single sweet. Somehow, that story stayed with me. It made me think about how presence lingers, about how even something as simple as a piece of chocolate could become sacred when placed with intention.

We also write calaveritas literarias, short, satirical poems that imagine Death coming for someone, usually in a cheeky or affectionate way. They are witty, often political, sometimes deeply personal. I never got one written about me, and I never received one of those sugar skulls with my name on it, but I knew they existed. It was not creepy or scary. It was just another way of saying, one day this will be you too, and that is not something to fear. A memento mori in a way.

And then, of course, there is pan de muerto.

I cannot talk about Día de Muertos without talking about the bread. I refuse. This is not just a snack. This is a spiritual experience. Pan de muerto is soft and slightly sweet, with a delicate orange blossom or citrus scent, dusted with sugar and shaped with bone-like ridges. It is meant to be eaten slowly, thoughtfully, with hot chocolate or café de olla. You tear it with your hands. You dip it. You let it sit on your tongue like a hymn. It tastes like memory, like warmth, like something sacred. It is one of my favourite things in the entire world.

Which is why I am still not over what happened during my postgraduate studies in Edinburgh. A group of fellow Mexicans hosted a Día de Muertos event and, to my delight, the invitation said there would be hot chocolate and pan de muerto. I was emotional already. I had been homesick. I was desperate for something that felt familiar. I arrived early, already romanticising the moment in my head, already picturing myself tearing up over slightly dry but still holy bread. Instead, we were handed instant coffee and Krispy Kreme donuts from the Tesco on Nicholson Street. I am telling you the truth. And then they announced that they would be screening Coco. At that point, I nodded politely, made some excuse about having to deal with Old English horrors, and left. The common room was across the street from my flat. I went home, sat on my bed, and ate toast. It was not the same.

I have not experienced deep personal grief yet. I have not lost someone whose absence has left a daily ache. And yet, Día de Muertos means more to me every year. Because it is not only about loss. It is about presence. It is about remembering before forgetting is possible. It is about building a space that says, you mattered. You still do. You always will.

So whether you are Mexican or not, whether you have lost someone or are simply thinking about them, this is your invitation. You can light a candle. Set out a photograph. Leave a flower. Place their favourite snack beside their picture. Tell their story. Say their name. Write them a poem. Let their memory sit beside you, even for a moment.

You do not need to do it perfectly. You just need to do it with love.
And please, if at all possible, let there be pan de muerto. Never a Tesco donut.