When my dad died suddenly on November 1, 2019, I felt alone.

I notified friends and family. I handled the funeral arrangements. And I tried to find a way to grieve.

At home, our family added my dad’s photos to our ofrenda (altar with offerings). We kept the ofrenda up after Día de Muertos. Sharing stories and memories was the best way I found to heal my heart.

During the pandemic, I was teaching from home while my kids took classes from home. Because my dad died during Día de Muertos, we were approaching the anniversary of his death. That coupled with everything going on in our world made our ofrenda even more important to us.

My daughter Shaian always creates art for our ofrenda and in 2020, she went all out. As she added papel picado, sugar skulls, and alebrijes, I thought about the layers of an ofrenda.

Building our ofrenda reminded me of the old nursery rhyme “The House That Jack Built.” I asked Shaian if she wanted to work on a story with me about building our ofrenda, and we wrote the manuscript that became The Ofrenda That We Built, illustrated by Gabby Zapata and published by Chronicle Books in 2024.

Since our book was published, the school where I work as a librarian started a community ofrenda. Many of the school and public libraries that I’ve visited to share our story offer community ofrendas as well. These libraries are giving their patrons a place to grieve, remember, and connect.

And the most powerful thing that has happened as I’ve read our book during library presentations: patrons—especially children—share their stories of loss.
“My dog died.”
“My grandma died.”
“My dad died.”

The holiday of Día de Muertos is intended to be a time of remembrance and celebration. It’s a time to share the stories of those who are no longer with us, to play their favorite music, to eat their favorite foods. But when a child has lost someone recently, I can’t just tell them that Día de Muertos is a happy holiday.

The first time a child shared during a group presentation that they’d lost a loved one, I thought, ‘I’m not the right person to deal with this.’ I’m an overly emotional person who cries easily and I didn’t know what to say to the children who were brave enough to verbalize their losses. I worried that I was causing trauma, but I noticed that the children who speak names need to be heard; to share and be seen; to know they’re not alone. They need a community to surround them and lift them up.

Our society doesn’t typically talk about death. A beloved dies, we have a funeral, and we’re expected to move on. But that’s not how grief works. Grief isn’t over and done with. It boomerangs and waves of it hits us again and again.

What helps is knowing you’re not alone in your grief. What helps is having a community space to share stories, to remember, and—when you’re ready—to celebrate. And our libraries have given us that. Libraries have done what they do best:
allow some patrons to see themselves, their cultures, and their practices reflected
allow other patrons to learn and grow
share information
offer connections

Through their community ofrendas that allow patrons a place to leave a photograph or write a name, and through storytimes that allow children a space to say a loved one’s name, we are united.

I was fortunate to have my dad in my life for 45 years. That little boy who shared that he lost his dad? He’d maybe been with him for 7 years. So how did he find the strength to share a loss as great as that?

He was at the library, and with his community surrounding him, he wasn’t alone. He was in a healing space.

Libraries send the message:
I see you. You’re not alone in your loss. We grieve, we remember, and we celebrate together.

Gratitude to the Denver Academy, Sterling, Anythink, Security, Thornton, Broomfield, Lafayette, Logan, and Jefferson schools, libraries, and community spaces for their amazing community ofrendas!