When I was a young girl, my mother would take my siblings and I to Mexico to visit my grandmother for a couple of months out of the year. I can recall in great detail many interesting experiences that occurred during my trips, as well as unique individuals that I encountered.
My friend Bernice from next door and I would walk over to the cemetery that was located up the street from my grandmother's house. We were fascinated by the elaborate tombstones and mausoleums. We would walk around reading the names on the tombstones, making up stories about how the people died. We were always worried that the hand of a corpse would come out from the ground and grab our feet, as punishment for stepping on their tombstones. Sometimes we thought we heard voices, or the rustling of leaves. Other times it was only eerie silence and the sound of our hearts thumping inside of our chests. Once we both ran out of the cemetery screaming because we thought somebody was following us. I would walk over to the area where my grandfather was buried and wonder what he was like. I spoke to him, hoping that he would hear me. Sometimes we would run into Barajas, the man in charge of the cemetery. He would tell us that at times it was necessary to remove bodies from their tombs to make room for the new bodies. "The bodies dance in the fire," he said, as he described the cremation process. A strange man but one with some very interesting, colorful stories.
My friend Dinorah and I would walk over to the river and watch the water as it moved along its familiar path. Women would wash their clothes there and converse with one another about their family lives. We would sit near the river retelling the story of La Llorona. We discussed how every night she would come back to the river to look for her deceased children, as she lamented their deaths (filling the river with her tears). On our way home we would stop by El Pepini's cart to buy some sliced cucumber covered in lemon, salt and chili. The man was always very cordial, one would never imagine that years later he would die from alcohol poisoning.
It's funny how the most salient parts of your life are always the most simple things. I enjoyed hanging out with my friends at the plaza, walking around its perimeter as though we were part of a parade. We would watch the fireflies dance in the night sky, and enjoy the warm breeze that caressed our cheeks. We also enjoyed the attention that we received from the local boys, even if their idea of attention was cracking confetti egg shells on our heads. The people in the town were always having parties. Firecrackers, loud music, great food and a feeling of freedom were all integral parts of the town.
I miss those days. I miss sliding down the handicap ramp in front of the church until my dress was covered in dirt. I miss chasing the chickens in my grandmother's backyard. I miss my uncle with the eye-patch. I miss the storytelling, and the magic that was a part of every trip. Most importantly, I miss my grandmother. A delicate, green-eyed woman with tremendous strength and determination. I hold on to these memories so that I can return there from time to time, and remember that life was not always complicated.
