Yesterday was the Mexican Day of the Dead. I went to the funeral of my 84-year-old Uncle Jay, where two rabbis and five family members spoke eloquently about an exceptional, larger-than-life man.

Poems were read. Hebrew prayers recited Even a Hopi prayer was intoned.

But in the end, a line of black limousines and cars followed a hearse to the cemetery, where my maternal grandparents are buried. We mourners shoveled dirt onto my Uncle’s grave.

That was the business of the day.

The rabbi explained that by shoveling dirt into the grave, Jews do the work of burying their own and “creating a blanket for the dead.”

We were told to use the back of the shovel; a symbol of just how difficult it is to cover one’s loved one in dirt. Nevously I waited for my turn. Would I be able to dig the shovel into the dirt, lift it, and turn it over into my Uncle’s deep grave?

I did it when my turn came. I was moved by the site of others, young and old, doing the same.

The rabbi led the group in the Kaddish, the traditional Jewish prayer for the dead. Traditionally, sons are required to recite the Kaddish three times a day for a year. In the reform tradition, of course, daughters are allowed to say Kaddish as well I am glad to say.

According to The Jewish Virtual Library: “the word Kaddish means sanctification, and the prayer is a sanctification of God’s name. Kaddish is only said with a minyan (prayer quorum of ten men), following a psalm or prayer that has been said in the presence of a minyan, since the essence of the Kaddish is public sanctification. The one who says Kaddish always stands.

All present placed a single purple tulip in the grave. There was a chill in the air. I looked down at the large, pine casket and lingered for a moment of unthinkable thoughts. Finality. Endings. Where are we going?

The rabbi told the group to make two lines facing each other so that the immediate family could walk through and feel surrounded by the love and support of friends.

Back at my aunt’s sunny apartment, the mirrors were covered with wrapping paper and cloth. Another Jewish custom: to cover mirrors during mourning as a way to ignore the physicality of the world and ourselves; a way to focus on the reality of being a soul.

I could see myself through the shiva coverings anyway. The apartment filled with relatives that, sadly, I see too infrequently, on Thanksgiving, at Bat Mitzvah’s, weddings, and funerals.

When I was younger it surprised (even embarassed) me that people could be festive after a funeral. But now I understand. Life goes on in spite of pain and loss.

Mexicans know that. The Day of the Dead is an upbeat celebration honoring the deceased. Mexicans believe that death is not the end but the beginning of a new stage. Some families build altars or shrines, and on this day, they pray and tell stories.

Some wear shells on their clothing so that when they dance the dead will wake.

That afternoon, the conversations were rich, vibrant, full of life. What are you doing? Where do you live now? Your children, what do they do?

The voices were loud. There was laughter. Stories about my Uncle. Memories shared. Were these our shells?

There was wine and good food. Rugalach, cheese cake, cookies, dried fruit. Friends and family caught up with each other.

Life goes on and yet…

On every surface, photographs of my Uncle and others who have died.

They go on. They do. Through us. Within us. They do.