Día de Muertos is not a funeral; it’s a homecoming. It’s the tender belief that, once a year, love is strong enough to bridge worlds; that memory, music, and the glow of candles can guide our people back to us for one night and a day or two more. We build ofrendas—altars layered with cempasúchil, photos, favorite foods, pan de muerto, salt, water, and small treasures—because hospitality doesn’t end at the veil. Each element is a welcome: the marigold’s bright path, the water for a long journey, the salt for purity, the food that says siéntate, te esperábamos.

In Sayulita, the season unfolds October 31 to November 2. Families prepare at home: petals on the floor like a river of sun, candles gathered in jars, sugar skulls and papel picado that rustles when the night wind rises. You’ll see neighbors carrying bread and flowers; you’ll hear the soft scrape of brooms as steps and doorways are swept for good spirits. Children learn by doing—placing oranges just so, lighting a candle for bisabuela, whispering a name out loud so it won’t be forgotten.

On these evenings, my daughter and I pull out the flower crowns and face paint. She sits on the stool, giggling while I trace petals around her eyes. We aren’t putting on costumes so much as writing love letters on our faces; marigolds in our hair, a candle burns next to us, and then we wander to the plaza to admire the ofrendas and pick up warm pan de muerto. It’s my favorite ritual, a way of saying “we remember” together.

One of the most moving moments comes at midnight on November 1st, when we make the walk to the cemetery. The town grows hushed except for the sea and the low murmur of greetings between families. Under the entrance arch, you really feel it—an air that’s different, charged with remembrance. Candles bead the pathways; guitar strings find a familiar song; someone laughs telling an old story that turns into a prayer. We clean the resting places, arrange flowers, and share food, not as visitors but as hosts, because on these nights our loved ones are the honored guests.

Over the years, I’ve watched Sayulita mark these days with heart. The plaza bright with ofrendas made by families, schools, and shopkeepers; the scent of copal drifting from house to house; faces painted not as costumes but as symbols; processions where the oldest stories walked beside the youngest children. I remember the way our town feels—small and open, hands full of marigolds, voices full of names. Those memories live in me like lanterns and I eagerly wait their return.

However you choose to observe—at home with a candle and a photograph, with a simple plate of the food they loved, or on the path to the cemetery at midnight—may this be a night for the living to honor the dead. Say their names. Set a place. Tell a story that only you can tell. The way back is lit by love.

Cover Photo by Laurita Polvorilla Photography

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