Yesterday marked twenty-three years since my grandfather, whose first name I bear, passed away from cancer-related illness. I never knew the man. I’ve only ever heard of him through stories and memories related to me by my family. Despite that, I find him incredibly familiar to me. Looking through old photos, I discovered that I bear a striking resemblance to him. Hell, when I was born my grandmother told my mother, “He looks just like your dad without his false teeth in!” The resemblance goes farther than physical, however. We share many of the same interests and preferences: a love of the outdoors, animals, running, reading, and numerous others. While I have not thoroughly read Hilda Ellis Davidson’s oft cited text, The Road to Hel, the concept of a split/complex souls of sorts is interesting to me; if there is truly a part of the soul that lives on in one’s descendants, then the similarities between my grandfather and I are made more clear to me.

Yesterday I also sought to honor and remember him in some way. By all accounts he was a quiet man, not one fond of excess or elaborate things. Knowing this, rather than making an elaborate offering to him, I simply poured out some milk at my home ancestor-altar. I find myself wondering how my family would react to this. They are not Heathen. They are all some variation of Evangelical Christianity that is common in the South. Yet they themselves performed similar rites: they left small gifts and objects at his grave. Though we may hold different views when it comes to our religions, and our views on a person’s ultimate fate after death may differ, we still share common ground when it comes to our ancestors. Though I may be making an assumption or reaching too far, it seems ingrained in human nature to venerate our dead, regardless of our respective religious beliefs or lack thereof. Perhaps people do not realize it, and the intent behind their actions may not be anything comparable to ancestor worship, yet they still perform these small rites.

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