When we decided to live up here, we made an offering to the hill. The hill is famous in town, and to some notorious, as a place where one can encounter the uncanny. Isma always said that to him it felt like a place where you could feel the earth beneath you, and understand that the earth itself is haunted with divinity. So when we decided to build our house at the top of this hill, we knew that we needed to ask its permission. The day we selected felt natural, a day that everyone in Mexico knows is when the border between the worlds are porous.
That first día de muertos we hadn’t so much as cut the grass over where we were going to dig the foundations. We slogged up the narrow path between the red oak, through the high grass that buzzed with bees and spring-loaded grasshoppers. Everyone carried something: Zoila, my mother-in-law, with armfuls of bright cempasúchil*; Isma the reed frame and banana stalks over one shoulder like giant red celery sticks. I carried the food in a closed soup pot and a small tower of tupperware. Don Lorenzo came last with his violin in its case and a bundle banana leaves tied with twine. By the time we made it to the top, we were all red-faced and sweating. Isma and his mother set up the altar. I served the food into special dishes meant for the offering, then bigger dishes meant for us. Pollo empanizado en salsa verde, frijoles de olla, handmade pasta that I rolled with a wine bottle the night before, mole, and totopos. Isma took out three shot glasses and filled each one with water. The marigolds he arranged in vases cut out of the banana stalk, the middle hole made wide enough to accommodate the stems of the marigolds. As the stalk dried out, it would naturally water the flowers for a few more days under the harsh sun on our chosen hill. We all saluted the altar and ate, squinting against the midday light. I wished I had brought a hat. The air smelled of grass and flowers and the clean breeze off of a chill river. Even without a brick in the ground, this place felt like my home. I wanted to care for it, and I hoped it would care for me. Never in my life had I found a place to bury my umbilical cord, the way that Isma’s was buried in the courtyard of his grandfather’s house where he was born. Here, I thought, if you’ll let me. Here, with you, cerro**. Please.
Don Lorenzo stood up and started to play. The scratchy notes of his traditional sones spread out across the grass, the wind blowing long blades into a quiet susurrus of accompaniment. Crickets chirped. The sun beat down. A few adventurous wasps alighted on the offering.
A few days later, Isma and I climbed the cerro alone to check on the offering. Every morsel had been eaten or drunk, but the bowls and plates and cups were undisturbed.
We took it as a ‘yes.’
***
On the day I used to know as Halloween, but is now just “the day before día de muertos” we arrive at my in-laws’ house for what we expect to be a quick visit. Zoila gets up as soon as we arrive. “Oh, I was hoping you’d come! We need to go to San Martín! Girls, put your clothes on! Find your shoes! We’re going to San Martín!”
Isma and I look at each other, half-appalled, half-amused. Our part of the coast didn’t get much from Otis besides some extra rain, but ever since then the power in the region has only stuttered on intermittently and cell phones haven’t worked for days. After few bursts of conversation in Amuzgo with his mom, Isma turns to me. “We’re going to get cempasúchil from one of her cousin’s fields out there.”
Even though it’s the last day of October, what ought to be solidly dry season, the sky is dark with rainclouds and the air smells rich and cold. We’re going to get it if we don’t hurry. I grab the youngest niece while the others race to the car.