The call came early in the morning from his mother. The matriarch of my husband's family, their nearly 100-year-old grandmother, had passed away.

Unbeknownst to me, funeral events happen quickly in their culture; the wake was scheduled for that evening, and the church service and burial would follow the next day, only a day after she died at home. It was all so quick that some of her 14 children and dozens of grandchildren wouldn't be able to make it. Since we realized we could probably make it, we knew we should.

We loaded up to drive four hours south, over the border, and hundreds of kilometers, not leaving the desert that shares the same name as the state's capitol, Chihuahua.

We can likely attribute it to them being under 13, but the kids implicitly trust us, especially as we travel. Stopping at the drive-up quesadilla vendors? Sure. Going to the fancy breakfast restaurant where the stern-looking Mexican politicos gave a side-eye as they had bibs placed over their tailored suits? Why not.

Their trust allows us the time to move through the world as a unit, and I've started to realize that it's time that does well for my soul.

We headed directly to the funeral home as we arrived in town. My husband faded into the crowd, moving from cousin to cousin before moving farther inside. I asked the kids if they wanted to go into the sanctuary to see their great-grandmother. My boy shook his head violently, eying the same-aged children zooming by. My daughter also hesitated at the idea. She would sit next to me, this serious daughter who, when she was 5, pulled a chair to sit next to the playground instead of joining the children. I enjoyed her company this time and didn't force her into the crowd as I did years ago.

The kids lounged politely next to me but were shamed into silence as countless tios and tias navigated toward us for tight embraces. They would continue holding onto the children's shoulders to ask them about their freckles, their classes, or just their ages — in Spanish. In my stunted phrases, I would reply for them. The relative would nod and pull them close for a hug again.

"This," I said, "was why your papa is trying to teach you Spanish."

I recognized this as being between two worlds. I've explained to my husband that there comes a time when, as a child, you want to align with one side or another and find stability in your identity. I had rejected being German, too, grunting at my grandparents on the phone who spoke to me in German to the chagrin of my mother.

Now I think about how when my mother dies, it'll be rare when I speak my mother tongue again. The language — and all the parts of who I am with it — will be buried inside me.

For them, it might have been a funeral they didn't quite understand, but it's more than that. These trips place markers in their memory to guide them back to their roots, those roots driven deep under the surface of the soils of who they are and always will be.

My daughter tapped me on the arm.

"I've changed my mind," she said. "I would like to see her."

Cassie McClure is a writer, millennial, and unapologetic fan of the Oxford comma. She can be contacted at cassie@mcclurepublications.com. To find out more about Cassie McClure and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate website at www.creators.com.

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