The Day of the Dead is a joyful celebration when you can connect with and remember your ancestors.
Mother died today. Or maybe yesterday; I can't be sure.
I've been celebrating the Day of the Dead since I was 6 years old because my grandfather passed away back then. The Day of the Dead was just a wonderful and joyful celebration where I can be with him and connect with him again.
Death is nothing to us, since when we are, death has not come, and when death has come, we are not.
Death always leaves one singer to mourn.
The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which we refuse to be divorced.
You can never do enough for the dead. You search around for comfort but there is no comfort; there never was and never will be. There is only a gradual wearing away of the sharp edges, so that you don't feel ambushed at every turn, as if you saw the dead suddenly rounding the corner.
On the fortieth day after his death, we held the ceremony, and I performed for the very first time.
I could not tell you the date of my mother's death. I could not tell you the date of my dad's death. These are not dates that I find significant.
My mother died of metastatic colorectal cancer shortly before three P.M. on Christmas Day of 2008. I don't know the exact time of her death, because none of us thought to look at a clock for a while after she stopped breathing.
The dead are too much with us.
Of the widow's countless death-duties there is really just one that matters: on the first anniversary of her husband's death the widow should think I kept myself alive.
Elizabeth Anne Taylor April 25, 1974 - April 25, 2004 Our Sweetheart, Only resting
