For those of us over forty, there was a time when the most anticipated day of the year wasn’t Christmas with its fairytale of Santa Claus. Truth be told, even the youngest among us — fascinated by the stories told by older cousins — knew very well that Santa Claus didn’t exist: it was Uncle Nino dressed in that red suit that was always too big for him, complete with a white beard and those inevitable sunglasses, handing out our presents. And when the clever kid of the moment asked why Santa rang the doorbell and came in through the front door since Aunt didn’t have a fireplace, the question was quickly silenced amid visible embarrassment from the adults.
We were waiting for a different holiday: I Morti (The Day of the Dead).
For us children of the 70s and 80s, November 2nd was a grand holiday filled with anticipation and letters. We wrote them to our departed loved ones: to grandparents or even to the goldfish, it didn't matter, as long as it was someone who had passed on to a better life.
A few days before, our parents would take turns dropping us off at an aunt’s house: they had to go "talk to the dead," which meant visiting the famous Fiera dei Morti (Fair of the Dead). Then November 1st finally arrived: we went to the cemetery to leave a flower, and right after, we visited our grandparents, because the dead would leave something at their house, too. In a corner of our grandparents' living room, a small tablecloth with our name on it was carefully laid out. The exact same ritual was repeated once we got back home that evening: off to bed early, because if the dead found us awake, they wouldn't leave us anything.
On the morning of November 2nd, we woke up early. No alarm bells, no school open that day: you opened the living room door and your eyes stared in awe at the toys you had wished for and asked for in your letter. You spent the morning playing, while in the afternoon anticipation grew to go back to your grandparents'. There, on that small tablecloth with your name on it, you would find another toy and the inevitable traditional sweets: ossa di morto ("bones of the dead" cookies) and rame di Napoli. What followed was an endless afternoon of playing and comparing gifts with your cousins.
Why am I writing this? Because Halloween will never have the magic that our Morti had. For us, it wasn’t a festival of monsters or something imported from abroad: it was a different kind of remembrance, made of memory, affection, and a deep joy that we still carry inside us today.
Add comment
Comments