Memories of My Family Tragedies Evoked by HBO’s Drama, ‘I Know This Much is True’

What are our stories if not the mirrors we hold up to our fears?

The 1st of November is the Day of the Dead in Hungary. We don’t have such an uplifting and positive tradition as Mexicans do (Día de Muertos), but one that is deeply grim and depressing. We visit our relatives and friends who are no longer with us and light a candle for them. 18 years ago, on that day, my father took me to the cemetery and told me a story that I’ll never forget.

Once we had lit the candles for my great-grandparents, we walked a few steps over to another grave. A grave of a young boy. The photo of him was black and white, a little faded and worn, but I could figure that he was about the same age as me when he passed away. Perhaps, that’s why my Dad chose this moment to tell me about his childhood friend, and how he died.

He told me that they lived in the same area of my hometown. His friend’s name was Sándor, but he called him Sanyika. The day Sanyika turned fourteen, he got a racing bike from his grandmother as a gift. My father said he was excited about it, although, he didn’t know how to ride it properly.

At that point, my dad stopped for a second to take a deep breath before he continued. My father is not a sentimental man. I had seen him cry only three times in my life.

He told me about that summer, and how Sanyika tried out his bike, but it was too big for him. He wasn’t confident riding it, although that didn’t hold him back to take it out on the road. Looking at the grave, my dad shook his head and whispered, “That goddamn bike.” He told me that Sanyika got hit by a truck that summer and died instantly.

I never knew what to react to that story, even though, I heard it several times ever since. It always baffled me how my dad dealt with it and carried on with his life. He’s not a nostalgic person, and is always looking towards the future because he can’t be stuck in the past. There is nothing there, he used to say.

Yet, every year on the 1st of November, he stood in front of that grave for several minutes to remember his friend. Every time I saw a kind of pain in his eyes that never disappears. I’ve not assumed to comprehend the notion of that grief or how he felt about it. You can attempt to understand one’s emotions, be empathetic, but you can never fully apprehend that until you lived through something similar yourself.