Turning 55 in a land full of spirits
- Melissa Herrera: Not Waiting for Friday
- October 15, 2023
- 1432
On Oct. 11 I’ll be 55. Fifty-five. Cincuenta cinco. My daughter and I share the same birthday, and she will be 33. Happy Birthday, Belle — I’m proud to be your mom. Uneven numbers for an uneven year.
People don’t like talking about how many years have slid under their skin. Our necks are the first to show, soft skin slightly hanging where it was once firm, maybe some small wrinkles or sun spots on our face. I don’t have any sun spots but do have a few wrinkles I’ve gathered that I hold as a treasure. It means I’ve lived.
We are deep in Mexico, and when I told my mother-in-law it was going to be my birthday, she barely blinked. Growing up, she didn’t celebrate her birthday. I’m unsure whether it was her Mixtec culture or whether it was there was no money to celebrate.
Either way, birthdays were just another day for her. I’m sure I’ll get to eat a big bowl of pozole (hominy and pork in a chile-based broth) in lieu of any presents, which really would be the best gift ever.
When I turned 21 here in Mexico long ago, I was very homesick. They tried to replicate chicken, mashed potatoes and noodles on my birthday (pictures do exist), but it simply didn’t pan out. The effort though, that made me tear up.
We’re gearing up down here for Dia de los Muertos, and everyone knows I love spooky season the best. Folks grow up here with a healthy view of the afterlife, but also to what exists in between.
On Dia de los Muertos eve, they put out food for their loved ones that have passed on, believing that for one night the veil has thinned and they return home to their loved ones. Candles are lit, and flowers are placed on an ofrenda (altar) for the souls to come and sup from. I’ve made my own ofrenda at home for years.
The other morning we were sitting at the breakfast table stirring our Nescafé and azúcar (sugar) into steaming mugs of hot water (I lay down my half and half addiction when I’m here).
My mother-in-law abruptly began to tell us about a very vivid dream she had the night before. She has always had many dreams, often connecting with the ones George also has. Her bones have begun to ache as she ages, and she’s told us she has her best sleep before dawn.
In rich detail she said, “I saw a figure standing in the doorway last night holding the hand of a child. She was clothed in a gray cloak and told me that I’d better hurry and pay what I owed before it was too late.”
Chills traveled down my spine and emptied into my stomach. At first I didn’t know it was a dream, though seeing a dark figure in any doorway here wouldn’t be unusual.
But the spiritual energy here is very palpable, and she took a sip of coffee before she explained she saw the woman in a dream. She hadn’t been scared, just relaying what she’d seen and what it may have meant.
George woke with a start this morning in our chilly room and sat up straight. “I heard La Llorona last night; I’m pretty sure it was her. I got up to go to the bathroom and heard a scratchy, garbled crying outside the window. I did my business and ran back to bed.”
It’s never me that sees anything spooky, just the ones that don’t want to see it.
Next week we will head to the coast of Oaxaca for some beach time. I’ll write about that with a paloma cocktail (grapefruit and tequila) in my hand. Maybe the veil will be even thinner there.