In Memory - Robin and John Stoker

“This isn’t gonna weird you out, right?” John asks. “I thought fae had a thing with death.”
“No, you’re thinking of Lord of the Rings. The elves are immortal and death freaks them out.” Robin frowns at the box in John’s hands. “Fae just live a lot longer than humans. Death is just part of nature. We don’t like bad memories but that’s just because we kind of tend to live in the moment. Past and future don’t mean the same things to fae.” He pokes the box with a finger. “Why’d you bring that?”
“Because we gotta pack a few things.”
“I’ve already got my go bag,” Robin says. “It’s in your car like always.”
“That’s not what I mean.” John sets the box down. “It’s okay if you say this isn’t your thing, but…this holiday means a lot to me because I’ve lost someone I cared about. And I know your family’s a little…”
“Weird? You can say it.” Robin’s more or less learned to deal with what his father became. Arion twisted him into a whole different person. He mourns the good man who died a long time ago.
“I was gonna say unconventional, dude.” John chuckles. “But, see, the thing about Dia de los Muertos is that, well…the way Abeula Rosa always used to explain it, it’s the time when the barrier between this world and the next doesn’t exist, and the souls of everyone we’ve lost return to us for that time.” He smiles sadly. “It’s the only holiday that doesn’t hurt because Gabe’s gone, you know? Cause…he’s not. Not on that night.”
“I…you’re sure it’s okay for me to come?” Robin asks. John finally told him what happened in Amarillo. He wanted me to understand why he’d been so angry with me. He wasn’t making an excuse for it, just trying to explain. Even though Gabriel Stoker’s death is in no way Robin’s fault, he still feels like the man’s ghost might take offense. As much as I’m sure ghosts aren’t…you know…real, there’s something about this that I can’t deny. John clearly believes in the most supernatural elements of this holiday, and something about that seems to be rubbing off. “What if everyone doesn’t think I should be there?”
“I think you should be there. And I think Gabe would like you.” John’s hand is warm on his shoulder. “He’s the one who always thought the fae deserved a fair shake. I don’t think dyin’ woulda changed that.” John says softly. “Gabe never judged anybody by what they did. Damn kid was practically a saint. He’d defend others in a heartbeat, but he never had a thought for himself.” He smiles. “Kinda like you.”
Robin swallows around the lump in his throat. “So what do I need to bring?”
“For an ofrenda? Photographs of the family members you’re gonna honor, some things that remind you of them. We’ll make food to put out when we get there.” John glances at the kitchen. “But that reminds me, if you got any recipes that were anyone’s favorite, we should take those too.”
“Um…” Robin isn’t really sure how to explain this. “Fae don’t write down recipes, they pass them on by word of mouth. Nothing’s ever the same when a different person makes it.”
“Then I guess we’ll just be making a lotta test batches till we find something that tastes the way you remember.” John chuckles. “Here’s the box, I’ll meet you at the car, okay?”
Robin nods. He knows John is giving him space to sort through his memories alone. He chooses a couple different family photographs and some of Mom’s stones, Grandma’s embroidered backpack and her favorite Bob Dylan record, and a couple of Grandda’s wood chisels and the white king from the chess set he made. After another long moment, he digs down into the dresser drawer and pulls out Adam’s watch. I wasn’t sure if he deserved to be included, but I think he should be. After all, his soul might be more lost than any of the rest. Maybe lighting the way for him to come home is the kindest thing Robin can do.
He closes the top of the box and carries it out to the Mustang. John is leaning on the side of the car waiting, and as soon as Robin gets his box settled John gets in and turns over the engine. Robin climbs into the passenger seat, and John pops a tape into the car’s cassette player. Robin raises an eyebrow when he realizes the lyrics are in Spanish.
“Mexican rock never got quite as popular as American or British, but it’s out there,” John says with a chuckle. “I grew up with Momma singing all the lyrics from Los Lunacitos and Dad playing the Beatles and the Rolling Stones.” He grins.
“Well, my grandma loved dancing to Peter Paul and Mary and Bob Dylan,” Robin says, pulling the record out of the box. “And Grandda and Mom sang all kinds of Seelie stuff. Guess we both come from families that loved music.” He nods down at the box. “I thought about bringing Grandda’s bagpipes but those were a little large.”
“I mean, we leave Gabe’s guitar on the ofrenda every year.” John says. “Wait, can you play?”
“Not unless you consider ear-splitting sounds that made every dog in the neighborhood mad ‘playing’,” Robin replies. “It’s more complicated than it looks. Probably Grandda’s isn’t even any good anymore, haven’t gotten it out in years.”
John nods. “I haven’t picked up my guitar too much lately either. Miss playing duets with Gabe and listening to Carmen sing, you know?”
Robin nods. He leans back in the seat and listens to the music and the hum of the tires on asphalt, feeling the sun on his face as they drive east toward Texas.