Where is home for Christmas?
- Melissa Herrera: Not Waiting for Friday
- December 23, 2021
- 745
As I write this, we’ve arrived back home in a puddle of backpacks, bones that feel like noodles. Our cats welcomed us with joyous relief. Where is home? Is it Ohio or Mexico or where love extends its most radiant beams toward us? The thread that has extended between these two countries has woven intricate patterns into my soul, patterns so delicate I’d be hard-pressed to know where one begins and one ends.
I’ve lived well over half my life loving people that speak Nahautl, people that grind corn to make exquisite morning atole, people that can shape handmade tortillas into oblong disks so good they descend you into ecstasy.
Our last week was a gathering of ourselves, an inventory of what was important and what we wanted to impress on our souls. We sat at my mother-in-law’s morning table, having risen slowly, and talked of the things you say when age begins to peel back the layers of your life. We drank Nescafe and spoke soft words to each other, some that we needed to speak louder than others because of her immense hearing loss — a receding into silence that may be a balm to the most tragic parts of her life.
I’ve learned to sit at my mother-in-law’s table without thinking I need to do anything. Culture demands I simply sit and receive. It took me a long time to understand this.
We finally brought out the book I had written about her son — her son, my George — on an afternoon during which large bottles of Corona (caguamas) were flowing into thick-lipped clear glasses, with the details of a life she has forgotten on purpose. His stepdad, who after the furor of his early life and effect on my husband, I have been able to forgive. George forgave him long ago, and as he held the words I had written in his hands, I fought back a moment of terror that he would never forgive me for writing them.
But George looked at me and told him, “Ese libro es mi historia. Mi historia solo” — “This book is my history. My history alone.” My nerves settled, and the circle felt complete, done, finished.
We did nothing more the last week than spend slow afternoons with his brother Chucho, who had come back from Tijuana, and nieces. I watched the large cactus Eva (my MIL) babied and adorned with scores of blinking Christmas lights and ornaments, a rough nativity scene spreading out from its base. Sheep and donkeys, at least 25 miniature pieces, sat sentinel under that cactus awaiting the baby Jesus on the night of the 24th. The cactus lights blinked all night long, their purple-hued glow casting a magical spell over the patio.
We took long drives with Chucho, seeking history I had written about in the book: the white house, the river where La Llorona appears mimicking George’s voice, the small road where Chucho and Tono’s paths diverged, and he became lost. It was a sweet, sweet spot in time watching them talk about the past and applying it to who they are today — two brothers that fought their roles in the delicate hierarchy of family.
We visited the pyramids of Teotihuacan, and even though I’ve been there many times over many years, I never feel that my visit is complete until I breathe that rarified air. Ancient and all-encompassing, the whistles and trills of the flutes filter through the air making you shiver. I did not climb to the top this time and stood at the base taking in their immense history.
His brother and mom came along with us, and they recalled the times she was a vendor there selling various things. Chucho and George remembered their scrambling up and down the sides of the pyramids selling Popsicles to the tourists that flocked there. We ambled by the pyramid of the sun, down the avenue of the dead and to the pyramid of the moon. We snapped photos and bought trinkets to take home, taking time to eat at a small restaurant that one of their friend’s family owned.
We said goodbye on a Saturday morning, our bodies sated from coffee and fresh sweet bread his stepdad had bought from the tienda that morning. I will miss the breads from Mexico, their French-infused style a delightfully confusing history I may delve into and expound on. We hugged and shed a few tears and stepped into a taxi, speeding away to Mexico City, where we would take our COVID tests 24 hours before being allowed to fly into the U.S.
I find myself at home in my office typing out this column in the days leading up to Christmas. It doesn’t feel like Christmas, and the airport carols that greeted us unrepentantly rang hollow in my ears. I left the hustle and bustle behind me somewhere on a remote beach at the end of the earth. I pick up part of the thread and ready myself for the gaiety and family. But my heart, its core really, has once again been left behind. Someday soon I’ll need to go back and retrieve it.
Melissa Herrera is a columnist, published author and drinker of too many coffees. You can find her book, “TOÑO LIVES,” at www.tinyurl.com/Tonolives or buy one from her in person (because all authors have boxes of their own novel). For inquiries or to purchase, email her at junkbabe68@gmail.com.