The blog is back…with a 500-word special

My blog is back up–thanks to the help of my great-nephew-in-law. I guess that’s what he is. His name is Phillip and I’m very grateful for his patience and expertise!

I had intended to blog regularly during my month in Guanajuato, where I spent all of October dealing with the legalities of selling my house there and reconnecting with friends I hadn’t seen since pre-pandemic, the last winter Jack and I spent there. It was an emotional time. Sad to say goodbye to a house that has been a winter home since 2006. Wonderful to see people I’ve missed. Confusing as I try to figure out what role, if any, Guanajuato will continue to play in my life.

A few days after I arrived, I wrote a blog post about my trip down–which was a chaotic disaster–only to discover that I couldn’t access my blog site. I won’t try to recreate the posts that might have been.

What I will do is share a couple of pieces I’ve written in response to one of my writer-friend’s “500-word-challenge”. He has been writing short pieces of exactly 500 words. Not 498. Not 503. Exactly 500. It’s silly in a way, but I’ve taken the challenge and found it both fun and an interesting discipline in word-crafting. Thanks for that Jeff! It was just what I needed to get words flowing again.

So, here’s the first one.

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Ashes to Mexico

Senora.

I turned to see an airport official holding a small Tupperware container with a blue lid in one hand and my passport in the other. I tried not to notice the holster attached to his belt.

I thought I could function in Spanish. I was at the beginning of a journey that would teach me otherwise, but I understood well enough to know I had broken some rule.

They are some of my husband’s ashes, I explained, groping for the right word. Cenizas. Had I said ashes or—perhaps—scientists? He is dead, I explained. This seemed redundant, given the ashes, but I felt it was worth clarifying.

The official assumed a momentary air of condolence, and then began speaking rapidly about legal processes and documents, gesticulating with the hand holding the Tupperware, saying something about registration forms and special containers. I might have picked up every fourth word. Enough to know this was a problem. Not enough to understand or answer his questions intelligibly.

Lo siento, no entiendo bien el espanol. I’m sorry. I don’t understand Spanish well. Even less well than I had thought. I was badly missing my nearly fluent husband, whose ashes remained mute.

The conveyor belt continued moving through the scanner as other travellers reclaimed their purses and laptops from the grey plastic trays and continued to their gates.

As the verbal bombardment continued, the words acto de defunción leapt out at me.

I fumbled in my backpack and removed a copy of the death certificate—on hand for upcoming legal transactions that would further shake my language confidence. A second official was called to scrutinize the information. There’s actually very little information on a death certificate.

The second official spoke slowly. Did I not know that a permit was required to bring human remains into the country?

No sabía eso. I didn’t know that, I said, stifling the image of a corpse in a suitcase.

As the two consulted, I watched the Tupperware container move in rhythm with the conversation— a mere cup of grey, granular ashes, just a token to spread near our Mexican house before selling it. I pictured them instead scattered irreverently on the terminal floor, grey footprints forming a line as passengers trampled past.

Never mind, I said. Tiralos. Toss them out.

They must have understood. Maybe they mistook my tears of frustration for tears of grief. The first official handed me my passport. The second looked me sternly in the eye and said that I could go on through, they would overlook it this time. But next time, I needed to follow the rules.

Next time?

I re-secured the container in its zip-lock bag and tucked it back into my carry-on.

When I arrived at the Mexican house, I transferred the ashes to a small, decorated ceramic jar. On the day marking one year since the date on the death certificate, I scattered the contraband ashes around the base of a eucalyptus tree and watched the day break.