In the Philippines, it’s a totally different vibe but I love it. The atmosphere is almost… festive. A celebration of the living in honour of their dead. The cemeteries full of families and flowers; candles and conversations around graves.

It was something I wanted Raven to experience as All Souls’ Day here in Australia is just like any other working day. With one eye puffy from an insect bite, she saw it all with her other eye. The organised chaos of it all — the steady parade of visitors slowly inching their way to the entrance; vendors on either side of an already narrow street leading to the cemetery selling Indian mangoes, balloons, what-not. My favourite would always be the bingka — native rice cakes fresh off the huge pot they cook it in. Yum!

Growing up, going to the cemetery felt like a social obligation. It’s something you had to do. Pay your respects to those who had already passed — relatives you never met or only knew because of the stories you heard about them. I liked the scandalous ones the most. My grandfather being one of them, on account of his genius and his alcoholism.

It’s the stories that keep them alive.

The dead are only as alive as the memories the living keep of them.

As I got older — and especially after my dad died — cemetery visits had become more personal. More like a pilgrimage. A reminder of where I, too, am headed.

It’s a fucking circle.

Now, the tombstones are slowly filling up with the names of people I actually know. It’s sad and scary at the same time. Either way, it is what it is.

Always, the takeaway is to just… enjoy life. Appreciate each and every breath with the people you hold closest to your heart while you are all still alive together.

*Raven at 6 years old