Heartbeat
How long does the love of those who love us live on?
Cry
and laugh…
I was about five years old. It was probably one of the first times we drove down to Michoacán. She lifted me, my grandma, Abuelita Juanita, and held me, and kissed me, wetting my face with her tears as she pressed her cheek against mine. She cried and laughed, hugging us, especially my father, her son. We had returned—safely— through 2,000 miles on the road, down the long stretch of Illinois, through to Texas, and into the central high plain in the Center of Mexico. It was a long trip. It could be dangerous, but it was the cheapest way to move things and people. There were five of us, so we could all squeeze in with our things. I was so small that the first time, I fit into the foot space of the backseat of our car.
On that day, the one I return to in my memory, Abuelita holds and squeezes me, then hands me to Malú, my aunt, who then hands me to Ángeles, my cousin. All hugs. All love. Our joy as bright as the clear blue sky.
Light
and stoke…
It’s early in the morning—rays of sunlight filter over the mountain to the east of the town. The church bell tower rings, 6:00 a.m. I look at her bed, but she’s already gone to daily Mass. About 45 minutes later, she arrives wrapped in her striped, dark blue rebozo to prepare corn kernels for tortillas. She lights paper and ocote and adds firewood. After about ten minutes, she places a pot of corn kernels, water, and limestone over the fire. By mid-morning, she will have made about two dozen tortillas. Like her work, they are the base of all our meals.
Pray
and dance…
One Sunday, she leads us on pilgrimage to San Juan Nuevo in thanksgiving. We enter the Santuario del Señor de los Milagros, the crucifix that survived the fires of a volcano back in the 1940s. My mother tells my brother and me to dance with Abuelita through the church's central aisle — to pray and thank God. I look around. I may have been small, but I knew it was not what we usually did in church. Forced by my mother, we go to the main altar, dancing back and forth and side to side for the miracle of a safe return.
Cook
and serve…
Another day, the entire family gathers at the house. It’s easily about 50 people. With all the aunts and my mother, Abuelita cooks and serves fried fish, soup, rice, and tortillas. It’s a party. The thanksgiving continues. She is grateful that we’re all able to share that meal. The happy noise is born from a family gathered in her love.
Hug
and release…
Then, it’s time to return north. We are up long before the sun’s rays peek over the mountain. There’s frost on the ground. Abuelita is crying again, hugging us— and pressing me against her body as if to imprint me upon her very skin. She releases us, knowing she can’t keep us there, but prays that there will be a next time. In all that she does and gives, she gives us her heart and usually food. She hands my mother a bag of simple tortas, just bollios and queso cotija, a meal for the trip.
It is during these cold days of Christmas that I remember her most. She was the hearth that welcomed, warmed, and fed the family. Her heartbeat makes me see the world with her kind, quiet eyes and smile — it pushes me to live with her generous hands. I know her love lives on in me. Many of us still carry her affection and example in our souls, and I’m sure we have lit other hearts and homes with her quiet flame. And that can go on forever.