Day of the Dead is not scary.
I am afraid of being afraid.
I startle easily. If someone dressed as a ghoul or an ax murderer jumps out at me from somewhere I might actually die.
Gore freaks me out. Fake blood? Real blood? How do you know?
I did Halloween when my kids were small. Walked them around the neighborhood with my heart pounding. The very first Halloween when my older daughter was one or maybe two we went to the mall. Someone told us it was a great venue for a really little kid. The lights were on ,and I thought it might be fun for her to see the older kids dressed up. But there were trick or treaters in scary masks, wielding rubber axes and roaring like monsters. She cried. I wanted to. We left.
One Halloween this same daughter and I made luminarias and lined our long driveway with them. We sat on the porch, dressed as rather benign witches with harpsichord music on our laptops. It was great. We didn't terrify anyone. But children did approach with a certain cautious wonder.
My other favorite Halloween wasn't real life. It was a dream. Dan and I went to a party dressed as John and Yoko. He, wearing a long black wig, was Yoko. I still smile when I think of it.
I get that people love Halloween and have a great time. Cool.
But I love Day of the Dead. A days long celebration to remember and to connect with our lost loved ones. Magic. I'd love a giant room full of marigolds right now.