I didn’t grow up celebrating Halloween during my childhood on Oct. 31. Instead, we ventured out on Nov. 1, All Saints Day, and Nov. 2, All Souls Day, countrywide holidays that sent waves of families to cemeteries. Not unlike Dias de los Muertos, we prayed and partied at the graveside of departed loved ones.

On the way in, we would pass vendors hawking everything from flowers and candlesticks to snacks and drinks. Mom would stop and greet friends, themselves already settled in for the long day.

In our unspoken catechism, Mom taught us that Nov. 1 was for celebrating Mass, praying to all the saints in heaven. Nov. 2 we dedicated to all souls, but especially those we love and have died. This devotion necessitated the cemetery trips, long a national non-working day for the whole country. Mom herself remembers making these treks as a child, but with strict elders who demanded children remain circumspect and well-behaved.

Of course, we first had to pray before the graves of our elders. Back then, they were mostly just names etched on marble. Luis Jimenez Cruz. Jose Paez Cruz. Francisco Nogra Vicente. Dolores Vicente Cortez. Later, they would come alive through stories: the quiet grandfather and pharmacist who loved to tinker with cars; the mayor uncle assassinated on Christmas Day by a bomb hidden in a gift basket; the much-loved big sister who fainted, pregnant, while ironing, and left behind eight children.

We learned, via a disapproving, motherly stare, not to clamber up gravestones or step on markers. No shouting, of course. But other than that, we were free to roam and keep ourselves busy while the grown-ups prayed and chatted.

I spent hours gingerly fashioning wax balls from hot candle drippings. My sisters and I competed to make the biggest one. We walked around and read the names and dates from each headstone, doing the the math: “Look! Sixty years! 81!” We quieted down when we got to someone who died young or had a photo embedded in their marker.

The day smelled of sampaguita blossoms and burning candles. The cemetery names are themselves a litany of sorts: Paco Park, San Bartolome, Santa Ana, Mandaluyong, and in more modern times, Loyola and Manila Memorial.

Locally, Forest Lawn and Rose Hills will welcome many guests on Nov. 1 and 2, too. We will marvel at how big the tree near Dad’s grave has grown, and admire the festive decorations on other sites. The visits are usually less crowded and quieter than the All Souls Days of many years ago. In this pandemic year, perhaps that is best.

In my personal 2020 ofrenda are memories of people we lost since March: Tita Nene Gundran; Tita Gloria Crisostomo; Tito Mario Cruz; Tita Guing Aranda-Ramos, and mere months later, her husband, Tito Tony Ramos.

We said goodbye to our friend Eugene Villacorta, only 44, on Sept. 15.

By then, we were savvy participants at Zoom rosaries and Masses. But this time, we were allowed to have a socially distanced, outdoor Mass, celebrated by Rev. Kevin Rettig of Arcadia, attended by Gene’s motorcycle-riding friends and those from his Filipino American retreat group. We were able to personally mourn with his brother Norman and his wife and son.

All of them so much more than just names on marble or a small, gold plate. Isabel Allende writes true when she says people die only when we forget them. This is for remembering, then. For always.