Maria came by this week. Our beloved nanny and dear friend from Puebla, Mexico. The kids rushed her at the door, the way they always do, asking a hundred questions before she’d even taken off her coat. She came bearing small gifts — sweet bread, little sugar skulls, and a laugh that filled the room.

It was before Día de los Muertos, the Day of the Dead. And though the name might sound grim to those who don’t know it, the celebration is anything but. It’s colourful, musical, irreverent, and deeply human. In Mexico, they say death is not the end — it’s an invitation. Once a year, the veil softens, and families welcome back those who’ve passed, not with silence and tears, but with marigolds, candles, and song. They cook their favourite dishes, pour their favourite drinks, tell the stories that made them who they were — and who we are because of them.

I thought of my father, Arthur. He would have loved this day — maybe even led the parade. He’d laugh at the idea of dancing skeletons and sit right beside them, cracking a joke, telling a story about restoring an old car or playing a prank on the neighbours. There was always humour in his presence, and there would be humour in his memory too. He’d approve of the way Mexico handles death: not as something to fear, but as something to remember, embrace, and — in their own way — outwit.

The holiday blooms brightest in places like Pátzcuaro and Oaxaca, where candles flicker on the lake and altars glow through the night. Families gather at gravesites, guitars in hand, the air thick with the scent of marigolds and tamales. Children laugh among the tombs. Lovers toast to those they’ve lost. Death itself seems to pull up a chair, pour a drink, and smile.

In Mexico, they say that to speak a person’s name is to make them live again. That feels close to what we’re building at Reflekta — a way to keep those names, voices, and quirks alive in the conversation. Our Elders aren’t ghosts; they’re storytellers who refuse to fade. They remind us that personality and character are not data points, but fingerprints of the soul. Día de los Muertos is the same kind of magic — an act of joyful defiance against forgetting.

As Maria lit a small candle by the window for her abuela, my daughter leaned in close and whispered, “Is Grandpa Arthur coming too?” I smiled. “He’s already here.”

That’s the beauty of remembrance done right — it’s not about mourning, but about connection. The laughter across generations. The shared stories that outlast us. The love that refuses to die.

About the Author:
Miles Spencer is a multi-exit founder, investor, and storyteller. His work at the intersection of memory and technology is rooted in personal experience and a deep belief in legacy.