---

---

 

“Mijo. Venga. Ayúdeme.” 

I rouse myself out of bed at two in the morning.

“Mijo, lléveme a El Salto,” he tells me as I enter his bedroom.  

I sit by his bed, reach over the railing, release his grip. Our hands the same hands, my mother used to say. He shifts and turns, grabs the rails. He wants to get up and ride his horse. “Traígame mi caballo. El Azul” he says.

“Papá. Descanse.” 

I promise him huevos con chorizo for breakfast if he rests. “Sí. Un burrito,” he says and lets go of the bed rails. 

We talk into the hours leading up to morning, what he calls “la hora del perro,” the coldest and darkest part of the night, right before sunrise.

Long ago, he would come into my bedroom to wake me, “Mijo, despierte,” and we’d deliver newspapers, right after we had moved to the United States from México, the back tailgate of the old blue Buick station wagon open, him driving slowly, me riding in the open tailgate, throwing newspapers on lawns and porches in the early morning dawn. We’d get back home just as the sun was rising. “La hora del perro,” he would tell me.

My eyes mist. I look at the ceiling.

I ask him if he remembers: “¿Se acuerda, Apá?”

He smiles. “Sí, mijo. Deme un Kleenex,” he says and dabs his eyes. 

He chuckles and tells me when he was seven and wandered into the locker room at the municipal gym in El Salto as the wrestlers got ready. He overheard them choreographing their falls, and El Gran Mito saw him and gave chase. My father ran ringside to his father, hid behind him as the wrestler approached, and pulled back on my grandfather’s suit jacket, revealing the gun he carried in his waistband. El Gran Mito took a look, scowled at my father, winked at my grandfather, and headed back to the locker room. My father stuck his tongue out at him as he retreated.

Later that long night, I ask him what he thinks happens when we die. He clasps his hands in front of him, index fingers extended and joined, lips pursed. He looks ahead of him, pauses, turns to look at me, his eyes wide, and says, “No sé, mijo.”

He dozes off. 

But he wants to tell me stories. I want to hear them. I hear him mutter in his sleep… “Chaparrita.”

He wakes to tell me about my cousin, the former drug dealer, and how my uncle called my father, asking for help. Early the next morning, my father drove to Casas Grandes and met  with the cartel head and brokered a deal to get his godson out alive, the same godson who never visited him as he lay dying these last few months. Anger wells up in me. I call my cousin a “pinche rajado,” a fucking coward, “rajado” the most offensive term I can use with my father.

My father takes my hand in both of his and says, “Déjalo, hijo. No vale la pena.” I will do my best to let it go because he tells me so.

The Undefeated with John Wayne comes on the late-night channel. My father looks at me when the film starts, points to the television, and tells me, “Mira, Durango. Ahí está El Salto,” as he points to the western landscape, train whistle in the background as the locomotive approaches a small western town. “El Salto,” he repeats as he falls back to sleep. I kiss him buenas noches and go back to bed.

I make my father huevos con chorizo early the next day, the last meal I will ever make for him. He taught me how to make huevos con chorizo when I was a child, as I stood next to him in the early morning, barely reaching his waist, in our small bright yellow kitchen in Juárez.

He knows the time is near. He wants to spare me, even now, close to death. He tells me, “Ya agarre camino, mijo. Vaya con sus hijas. Estoy bien.” I shower and ready to leave, and as I tell him I am leaving, “Ya me voy, Papá,” I choke back tears. He holds my hand, doesn’t let go, his grip strong, his eyes watery. Me wanting to let go and not ever wanting to let go, the same way I held my mother’s hand two years before. I give him a kiss and leave and start the drive back home. 

Crossing the border into New Mexico reminds me of the last time I crossed a border with him, after my mother had passed. 

That early morning, I pushed him out of the house, helped him get in the car, put the wheelchair in the car, and drove to Juárez. Along the way we talked about my mother, but mostly he was quiet, looking out the window, every once in a while, making a comment about this street or that landmark, or the flags on the bridge. He and I drove lots of miles together, crossed this border hundreds of times. As we neared the bridge, I looked over at him dozing. We crossed the bridge and headed to the pension office. Once there, I got down to get Señorita Álvarez. She came out to the car. He clasped her hand in both of his to greet her.

“¿Cómo está, Señor Herrera?” she asked. 

“Estoy vivo,” he said with a smile. 

“Gracias a Dios.” 

They chuckled, he signed his pension papers, and gave her a small box of chocolates. We left, stopping to get some burritos at El Padrino, him a chicharrón verde burrito, me a chile relleno, and headed back across. Crossing the border one last time for us.

I fight back tears as I enter Arizona, Texas Canyon, stop and take a break for the last stretch home.

Back home that night, I dream that I am in my old bedroom, the house in Juárez, playing with my grandniece Lucía. We hear the back door of the house as my father comes into the kitchen, my mother greeting him, “Hola, Viejillo.” “Hola, Chaparrita,” I hear him say.

In my room, Lucía stutter-steps, her curls bouncing up and down around her face, screaming “Tito!” I tell her “Go say Boo! to him.” She giggles and I hear her feet pitter and patter down the hallway to the kitchen. I hear her say “Boo!” and then silence. She comes back pouty faced and says he’s not there. I gently nudge her back out. She goes and I hear “Boo!” Then the same silence and then her little feet plodding back. She is sobbing and tells me that she sees him but he does not see her. I cannot stop her crying.

When I wake from the dream, I know my father is dead.

---

The day of my father’s service, we get his ashes in a cardboard box. My nephew José and my half sister María Elena want some of the ashes as well. When I ask at the funeral home, they tell me separating ashes is a sacred Catholic process, something only they can do, for a nominal fee. I ask my father’s ashes and he tells me to go ahead. “Usted hágalo, mijo,” I can hear him tell me.

I buy a small wooden box at a hobby store in El Paso. It says “Blessed” on the top. I take his ashes to my parent’s house. I put on some of their favorite Mexican music, a mix of José Alfredo Jiménez, Juan Gabriel, and Lucha Villa. I place my parents’ crucifix on the dining room table, along with his ashes and three Ziploc bags. I take my mother’s ashes from the mantel of the chimney and bring them to the table. 

I ask my parents’ permission and forgiveness and, though it’s been a long time since I’ve prayed, I pray, some vestigial act from oh so long ago when I still believed. I make the sign of the cross, and take a sip of Onó sotol as I work.

I open the box with his ashes and untie the thick plastic bag. There are small pieces of bone amongst the ashes. I have seen those before, with my mother. With a spoon, I scoop out ashes from the large bag. I feel like an Old World apothecary, or a New World narco, as I distribute ashy powder evenly among the three bags—one for my nephew, one for my half sister, one for me—Mexican music playing in the background. I leave some ashes in the thick bag and take some of my mother’s ashes and mix them. They were married over sixty years and I think it’s only fitting that they be together. I take their ashes to the backyard and spread them at the base of the pecan tree he planted. I water the tree and watch my parents’ ashes dissolve into the earth.

I go back inside as“Que Te Vaya Bonito” by José Alfredo comes on. My crying echoes in the empty house. 

I clean up and walk out of my parents’ house for the last time, the three Ziploc bags in the Blessed box, carrying it under my arm like a football.

---

Back home, I talk to a travel agent, go to the FAA website, submit a query. I need a death certificate and a certificate of cremation, which my sister has. My sister and I aren’t talking and I won’t budge, so I call the funeral home. The funeral home director suggests I talk to my sister, who has power of attorney. I explain the current state of affairs between us, but the director cannot help me. Plan B is to take my father’s ashes using my mother’s death certificate and certificate of cremation, both of which I have. Who would know? I could smuggle him back into México with my mother’s documents. He would like that. But then I get an email from the director with scanned copies of what I need. Thank you. 

The day I leave for México, I am nervous as I get to security, and talking to my father helps me relax. “Estamos en Phoenix, Papá,” I tell him. “Vamos a pasar por seguridad,” as we approach security.

I put the Blessed box on the belt, and when it goes through the scanner, the agent asks me what is in the box. 

“My father’s ashes,” I say.

“I am so sorry for your loss,” he says as he swabs the outside of the box. I whisper to my father what is going on.

“All good,” the agent says and waves me through.

“Ya pasamos seguridad,” I tell my father as I put the box in my backpack. I head to the gate, my father on my back. 

In Dallas, the agent follows the same procedure and says, “I am so sorry for your loss,” as I leave to catch my connecting flight. Her kindness soothes me. 

I board and find my seat, placing the backpack on my lap. “Ya vamos a México,” I tell him. I imagine him smiling at our adventure. He would ask me whenever I traveled, “¿Qué aventuras tuviste?” and I would tell him about my latest adventure in México. He liked that I loved México. He lived almost his entire life there, and even though I moved away from México when I was a teenager, I constantly cross back. He and I share our love for the country, all its faults, all its beauty, its numbing contradictions, its people. I would retrace his steps in parts of México as I crossed into Juárez or Durango or Mexico City, places he loved. Places I love.

Last summer, when the group I was with got pickpocketed in the metro in Mexico City, I called my father to tell him.

“¿Estás bien?” he asks.

“Sí, todos bien. Gracias. No pasó nada,” I assure him.

Only when he knows I am okay does he laugh, the laugh I sometimes still hear.

“Mijo,” he says, “ahí te roban los calcetines sin quitarte los zapatos,” the image of the pickpocket taking off my socks without taking off my shoes making me laugh. 

I fall asleep on the plane as we fly to Guanajuato. 

“Ya llegamos a Guanajuato, Papá,” I tell him as we land. He has never been to Guanajuato. I hope he is excited.

When I go through customs, the customs agent asks me what I have in my backpack.

“Mi papá,” I say. “Sus cenizas.” She asks for the paperwork and asks me to follow. Her uniform, like her, is tightly creased. 

She signals to a young man and a young woman, and tells me they will make copies of the paperwork and I will show them the contents of the box. She leaves. 

I show them the contents of the box and they make copies of the documents. “Lo siento,” each one says in turn. The young man asks me what “Blessed” means and I say, “Bendito,” and he nods in agreement and says, “Sí.” The young woman tells me she lost her father recently. “Es muy difícil,” she says and I nod in agreement. I thank them and I make my way to get a taxi. I tell my father we are on our way.

On the ride into the city, I tell the taxi driver about customs.

“Los muertos y los desaparecidos,” he says. I tell him I don’t understand what the dead and the disappeared have to do with customs. 

He tells me that the Mexican government is trying to account for the tens of thousands of people killed and disappeared and bodies and ashes and body parts unaccounted for over the last decade or so of the drug war. “Esta la cosa de la chingada.”

“Entiendo,” I say to him.  

“Ya llegamos, Papá,” I tell my father as the taxi drops us off at a friend’s house.

A couple of days later, we catch a bus at midnight for the eight-hour ride from Guanajuato to Durango. I settle down to sleep, my father’s ashes on the empty seat next to me. 

The last time he and I rode a bus was ten years prior, when we traveled from Juárez to Durango to visit his compadre Armando, “El Colorado,” his best friend, my godfather. We talked and dozed throughout the evening into early morning. It was the last time they would see each other before El Colorado passed away. I fall asleep and the bus makes its way in the night. 

When I get to the Durango bus terminal Friday morning, my cousin Laura is there to pick me up. There is no blood relation, but we share the last name, Herrera. My father and her father Armando grew up in El Salto. I would spend summers with them when I was younger. 

“¡Chori!” she says when she sees me, a shortened version of my nickname, Chorizo, and also my father’s nickname growing up in El Salto. We hug, and more of the tension of the trip eases off my back. It feels good to be with family in Durango, where my father spent a good portion of his life, where I spent some of mine. It feels good being able to bring him back. 

Early Saturday, Laura and I go to the mercado and buy a set of four “caballitos.” I tell the vendor, “Esos,” as I point to the colorful ceramic shot glasses that have “Durango” on them. Then Laura and her husband, Santiago, and I make our way to El Salto in their truck, just a little over an hour’s drive away, into the Sierra Madre of México. The Blessed box, shot glasses, and a bottle of Tequila Sauza are on the seat next to me.

We get to El Salto and Santiago drives through the small lumber town, off the main road that leads to Mazatlán, on the other side of the Sierra Madre. Hollywood Westerns were filmed in El Salto in the 1950s and ’60s, but now it’s just a typical small Mexican town in the sierras, with some unpaved streets, the gas station right off the highway, the OXXO next to it, the small repair shops, seafood and taco restaurants, dogs dozing by the side of the road, smell of food, fuel, lumber, and mountain air.

It was here that my father spent a good part of his childhood. When my father was a teen, he and El Colorado belonged to a motorcycle stunt club, and they would often ride what was then partly unpaved roads on the famous “Espinazo del Diablo,” the logging road that went from Durango, from the eastern side of the Sierra Madre, across the mountains to Mazatlán, on the coast on the western side of the Sierra Madre—a dangerous six-hour ride. 

We drive now on the newer autopista, the new superhighway that cuts the trip from Durango to Mazatlán from six hours to two and a half, making traffic between the two states and cities faster and safer. Mexicans have already dubbed the autopista the “narcopista” for the drug traffickers that use the highway as well. 

I tell my father, “Ya llegamos, Papá.” 

When we get to the longest suspension bridge of the highway, one that spans from Durango into Sinaloa, I tell my father, “Ya cruzamos a Sinaloa, Papá.” We stop mid-bridge and look out at the breathtaking grandeur of the sierras. I know he’d be smiling at the wonder.

We make a U-turn and head back to El Salto and park by the side of the road, overlooking the town. We get off the truck. It’s cool in the mountains, but I am wearing one of my father’s Western-style cotton shirts. I find a nice spot in a meadow that overlooks El Salto, between two pine trees. We pour tequila into the four shot glasses and I place one for my father on the grass, right by a rock, on a bed of grass and pine needles. Laura, Santiago, and I toast my father. “En paz descanse, Papá,” I say as I open the box, take out the Ziploc bag, open it and spread his ashes, some of which land near my father’s shot glass. The wind picks up slightly and the rest of the ashes seem to float in the direction of El Salto. We watch, only the sound of the wind in the pines. 

Santiago and Laura hug me and I cry, thankful for their support and their love and for the moment, thankful for bringing my father back home.

I look at El Salto in the distance and say my last goodbye to my father. “Ya me voy, Papá. Descanse.”

 

---

JAIME H. HERRERA grew up bilingually and biculturally in Juárez, Chihuahua, México, across the border from El Paso, Texas. He thanks his parents for his education, his bilingualism, for raising him in that Borderspace. Gracias. Jaime always carries the border with him, and writes about the Borderspace—Nepantla—in essays, short stories, and poetry.

 

Featured image by Cole Ciarlello, courtesy of Unsplash.