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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required The Gede's Almanac (DHR) on Fèt Gede, when Haiti welcomes the dead I. Elsewhere, autumn is a slow undressing — maples letting go of themselves in red, a season measured in what falls. Here, on the first of November, we do not measure autumn in falling. We measure it in return. The gate between the living and the dead is a crossroads swept clean with rum, and the dead do not drift down like leaves — they arrive like family, loud, thirsty, wearing purple and black, one lens missing from their sunglasses, because Baron Samedi never cared which eye saw the living world clearly. II. My grandmother used to say: the dead get hungry too. So we feed them what we would eat ourselves — pikliz sharp enough to wake a corpse, griot dark as the soil they came up through, and clairin poured straight onto the ground, a small, deliberate offering to those still owed a place at the table. We do not whisper to our dead. We shout. We laugh with them in the cemetery the way you'd laugh with an uncle who tells the same joke every year and somehow it is funnier each time because he is the one telling it, and, for a moment, he is here. III. In this almanac, autumn has no orange, no pumpkin, no cider, no children in flannel. Autumn is violet on white crosses. Autumn is a marching band at a graveside, trombones arguing cheerfully with grief. Autumn is Gede Nibo, powdering his face the color of bone made beautiful before it is buried. I have read that in colder countries they call this season a dying — the trees performing their long undressing, the light going thin and apologetic. We do not disagree, exactly. We only add what they left out: that death can be a coat you put back on once a year, then wear to your own grave where the living are waiting, still unafraid enough to dance. IV. So if you ask what autumn looks like where my family comes from — it looks like a crossroads at dusk, a bottle passed hand to hand, a name spoken loud enough for the one who owned it to lean in from wherever the dead lean in from. And when we call, the answer is not silence. It is ayibobo — the old word crossing the distance between the grave and the living mouth, between the ones who left and the ones still learning how to stay.
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