Dear Wigleaf,

I'm writing to you from inside the All Souls Procession on Día de los Muertos in Tucson. We're having a parade. A celebration. Thousands of us. We're mourning, but now we're mourning with drums and fiddles and dancing and sugar skulls and big, bright dresses.

Feels good to be with people. I don't like people, but this pandemic has put me in the upside-down. I'm underdressed. I should be wrapped in lights.

I made a poster. I wanted to bring my cousin, my grandma, my dad, and my dog. I used a young picture of my dad before he was my dad. I found a picture of my grandma sitting at her desk at her job. She loved that job. My cousin died young, so that's fucking awful and sad but lots of pics of him are available. I opened photo albums and pulled more and more: my grandparents, my great-aunt and great-uncle, my great-grandparents. I glued the shit out of those pictures, afraid one might fall off. The poster board was big and flimsy and full. I carried that bulky poster from Phoenix to downtown Tucson to the procession and back. Parades make me emotional even without the empty dog collars and people's lost children and parents. I walked and held the poster and cried because I'm still here. You and me and the rest of these people, we're alive. We're all still here.