On November 2nd my house was always a little spooky.
The smell of incense wafted outside our door
Making others curious, suspicious
Because they didn't understand
How my grandmother honored the dead.
How to attract their attention,
How to implore their help
Through the veil of smoke that separates
The living and the dead.
She knew they were compassionate
because they remembered their lives.
But she didn't know that death creates wisdom.
The dead scrambled to my house
Where Grandmother offered respect through ritual.
They liked inhaling the scent of life,
to watch the fumes of candle fire
Illuminate the adventures of the living.
In their wisdom, they helped Grandmother
the way ghosts help.
They waited for her to get wise
While they often sighed mourning themselves.
(For Poets United.)