Building Our Día de los Muertos Ofrenda on the Patio

And Why It Means More to Me Now

There are some traditions you understand differently as you get older.

When you’re younger, you see the flowers.

The candles.

The photographs.

The food.

The beautiful colors.

You understand that Día de los Muertos is about remembering the people we love who are no longer here.

But then you live a little longer.

You lose people.

And suddenly remembering isn’t an idea anymore.

It has names.

It has faces.

It has stories.

This year, when I build our ofrenda on the patio, I’ll be bringing some of those people outside with me.

And I have a feeling it’s going to mean more to me now than it ever has before.

This Isn’t Halloween

Because this post is coming right after a whole lot of witches, pumpkins and Halloween decorating around here, I want to say this first.

Día de los Muertos isn’t Mexican Halloween.

It’s a tradition of remembrance—a time to honor loved ones who have died and to welcome their memory back into our homes and lives.

Yes, there are skulls.

Yes, there are candles and incredible colors.

But the heart of an ofrenda isn’t spooky.

It’s love.

It’s saying:

You were here.

You mattered.

We remember you.

And maybe that’s why I’m feeling this one so deeply now.

I’m Building Ours on the Patio

Of course I am.

If you’ve been around Gigi’s Unfiltered for five minutes, you probably could have guessed that.

Our patio is part of our everyday life.

Morning coffee.

BigDog.

Luna supervising everything.

Conversations.

Quiet moments.

Arizona evenings when the weather finally decides to stop trying to kill us.

It’s where we sit.

It’s where we talk.

It’s where life happens.

So putting the ofrenda out there doesn’t feel like displaying something.

It feels like making room at home.

I don’t want it tucked away somewhere nobody goes.

I want to walk past it.

I want to sit near it.

I want to see the photographs while I’m having my coffee.

I want the people we’re remembering to feel woven into the ordinary rhythm of our days.

THE HEART OF OUR OFRENDA

I’m not trying to build the prettiest altar on Pinterest.

I’m trying to build one that makes us stop.

Look at a photograph.

Say a name.

Tell a story.

Remember.

First Come the Photographs

This is where I know I’ll slow down.

Because a photograph isn’t just a photograph once somebody is gone.

You look at the clothes they were wearing.

Their expression.

Who was standing beside them.

Where you were.

What happened right before the picture was taken.

Things you probably didn’t think twice about when you took it suddenly become incredibly important.

That’s what I want at the center of our ofrenda.

People.

Not decorations.

Not a color scheme.

People.

My Dad

My dad died in 2024.

There are still moments when I look down at the fingerprint ring I wear and think about what an extraordinary thing a fingerprint is.

Those little lines belonged to him.

His hands touched things.

Built things.

Held things.

Held us.

And now I carry that tiny piece of him with me.

Grief is strange that way.

A person can be gone and still show up in the smallest places.

A ring.

A photograph.

A memory that arrives out of nowhere.

A story you’ve heard a hundred times and suddenly desperately want to hear one more time.

So Dad will have a place.

Not because I want to sit on the patio and be sad.

Because I want to remember that he lived.

And Then There’s Tiffany

My best friend.

Even writing those words still feels strange sometimes.

Tiffany died in September 2022.

But when I think about her, I don’t want the date she died to be the first thing that comes to mind.

I want the life.

The laughing.

The friendship.

The stories.

The things that still make me shake my head and smile.

The people we love deserve to be remembered for more than the day we lost them.

That’s something I’ve come to understand more deeply with grief.

Death gets one day.

Their life got all the others.

Those are the days I want on this table.

Marigolds, Because Color Belongs Here

Día de los Muertos is not quiet beige grief.

And I love that.

Give me the marigolds.

Give me orange.

Give me pink.

Give me purple.

Give me candles and papel picado and color everywhere.

There is something beautiful to me about honoring the dead with life.

Color.

Food.

Music.

Stories.

Laughter.

Flowers.

It doesn’t pretend loss didn’t hurt.

It simply refuses to let the hurt become the only thing left.

That speaks to me.

Especially now.

This is where I want the color to begin—not as decoration for decoration’s sake, but surrounding the people we’re remembering.

Then Come the Things That Tell Their Stories

This may be my favorite part.

I don’t want our ofrenda to look like something I ordered as a complete set.

I want little things that mean something.

A favorite food.

A drink someone loved.

Something that reminds us of a joke.

A little object connected to a story.

Maybe something nobody else would understand unless we explained it.

Actually?

Especially something nobody else would understand unless we explained it.

Because that’s where the stories live.

Someone asks:

“Why is that there?”

And suddenly you’re talking about them.

That’s the whole point.

PUT SOMETHING ON THE OFRENDA THAT NEEDS A STORY

Not everything has to make sense to a stranger.

Maybe it shouldn’t.

Some things only need to make sense to the people who loved them.

There Will Be Candles

As evening settles over the patio, this is the part I’m already imagining.

The candles glowing.

The photographs.

The marigolds.

Arizona finally cooling down.

BigDog nearby.

Luna probably inspecting the entire arrangement to determine whether any portion of it falls under her jurisdiction.

And for a little while, the patio will feel different.

Not sad exactly.

Full.

That’s the word.

Full.

Full of people who aren’t sitting there physically but who helped create the people who are.

And Yes, There Will Be Food

Food carries memory in a way almost nothing else can.

One smell and you’re somewhere else.

Somebody’s kitchen.

A holiday.

A childhood table.

A person you haven’t seen in years.

That’s especially powerful in families.

Recipes travel.

Traditions travel.

Flavors travel.

They move from grandparents to parents to children and sometimes nobody even realizes they’re carrying history around on a plate.

So yes, we’ll include food.

Not because it’s pretty for a photograph.

Because food says:

Sit down. There’s a place for you here.

I’m Not Trying to Make It Perfect

This matters to me.

There are going to be gorgeous Día de los Muertos displays all over Pinterest and Instagram.

Beautiful arches.

Hundreds of marigolds.

Perfectly styled tables.

And I can appreciate every bit of that.

But that’s not my goal.

Our ofrenda doesn’t have to be big enough.

Mexican enough.

Pinterest enough.

Perfect enough.

It needs to be ours.

That’s all.

I’m building it with respect for the tradition and with the people we’re remembering at the center of it.

If something is slightly crooked?

Fine.

If I decide at the last minute that something belongs there?

Put it down.

If somebody tells a story and we laugh while we’re standing in front of it?

Even better.

This isn’t a museum display.

It’s memory.

Memory is messy.

Losing People Changed the Way I Understand Remembering

I think this is really why I wanted to write this.

When I was younger, remembering someone who died sounded like looking backward.

Now I don’t think that’s what it is.

The people we’ve loved become part of how we move forward.

Things my dad taught me are still here.

Things Tiffany gave me are still here.

Stories.

Habits.

Expressions.

Lessons.

The way somebody made you feel about yourself.

The things you learned from loving them.

Even the things you learned from losing them.

They’re still moving through your life.

Maybe that’s why an ofrenda feels different to me now.

It isn’t about pretending someone comes back.

It’s acknowledging that in certain ways…

they never completely left.

Mom Will Be Part of This Too

There’s another reason this feels different this year.

My mom is still here.

And lately I’ve been reminded just how precious that is.

There is something about watching a parent get older that makes you pay attention differently.

You listen harder.

You notice the stories.

You ask questions you might once have assumed you’d have forever to ask.

And maybe while we’re building this, I’ll ask Mom about the people in some of those photographs.

Who were they really?

What did they say?

What did they cook?

What made them laugh?

What drove everybody crazy?

I don’t only want names and dates.

I want the good stuff.

Because those stories disappear if nobody asks for them.

ASK WHILE YOU CAN

Who taught you to cook that?

What was Grandma really like?

Who was the troublemaker?

What did Grandpa always say?

Who made everybody laugh?

What story does nobody tell anymore?

Ask. Write it down. Keep it.

Maybe That’s the Real Gift of an Ofrenda

It gives us permission to talk about people who died.

Not in hushed voices.

Not only on anniversaries.

Not only when we’re crying.

We can say their names.

Tell the funny stories.

Put out their favorite food.

Laugh.

Remember.

Tell the younger ones:

This person is part of your story too.

I love that.

Because forgetting somebody isn’t the price we’re supposed to pay for continuing to live.

We can keep going.

We can be happy.

We can build new things.

We can dream new dreams.

And still make room for the people who helped get us here.

Those things can exist together.

What We’ll Put on Our Patio Ofrenda

Ours will grow as we build it, but I’m starting with:

• Photographs of the people we’re honoring
• Marigolds and other bright flowers
• Candles
• Papel picado
• Water
• Favorite foods and treats
• Personal objects connected to memories
• Things that tell a story
• Color
• Love
• And probably one extremely curious little black dog who has been told repeatedly that the food is not for her

Because apparently every meaningful family tradition still requires Luna supervision.

This One Isn’t About Buying Anything

You’ll notice something missing from this post.

There aren’t a bunch of shopping links.

That’s intentional.

Could I link candles?

Frames?

Flowers?

Decorations?

Sure.

But that’s not what I want this particular story to become.

Use what you have.

Print the photograph.

Pick up the flowers.

Bring out Grandma’s dish.

Find Dad’s old thing you’ve kept in a drawer.

Put out the candy somebody loved.

Write down the story.

The value of an ofrenda isn’t what you spent creating it.

It’s who you’re remembering when you stand in front of it.

When the Candles Are Lit

I keep picturing that part.

The Arizona sky getting dark.

The patio lights on.

Candles flickering.

Marigolds glowing orange.

Photographs of people we love looking back at us.

BigDog.

Me.

Luna.

Maybe Mom.

People here.

People remembered.

Different generations occupying the same little space for an evening.

And I think that’s when I’ll understand why building this ofrenda means more to me now.

At 68, I know something younger Gigi couldn’t possibly have known yet.

A life eventually becomes stories.

The funny ones.

The painful ones.

The ones everybody has heard 500 times.

The ones we wish we’d asked about.

The ones we tell our children.

And if we’re lucky, the ones they tell theirs.

So this year I’m putting those stories on the patio.

With photographs.

With marigolds.

With candles.

With food.

With laughter.

Maybe with a few tears too.

Because there are people I wish could pull up a chair.

And while I can’t change that…

I can still save them a place.