WHEN I MOVED to Mexico almost 16 years back, my mother was not pleased, to state it mildly. I moved anyway.
I visited her in Atlanta most every year until she died nine years later at the age of 90. Now she visits me.
Every November 1, she joins the Mexican relatives on the Night of the Dead altar my wife erects here in the Hacienda’s living room, and her being there means she comes to visit.
I wonder how she likes it.
In her physical life, she only came once. That was just a few months after I moved south. She flew down with my sister for a week. It was the only time she’d ever left the United States except for a vacation to Banff, Canada, ages earlier.
My sister had never left the United States, and hasn’t since.
My mother now comes every year on this night. She rests there on the altar near my wife’s father, the doctor who died at just 61; her mother who died at 31; her two brothers who were shot to death in unrelated events; and an aunt.
I wonder what my mother thinks of her company, none of whom spoke English. But I guess that doesn’t matter anymore.
You never know where you’ll end up.