It was reaching midnight and my eyelids became heavier as I struggled to make my way through the cobblestone streets of a small pueblo called El Grullo, Mexico. The cold air enveloped my body, but my skin welcomed it like one welcomes an old friend.

The streets were empty, but you could still hear drunk laughter spewing out through the open doors of small colorful houses. I had spent most of the day exploring the neighborhoods where my parents once ran through as children, chasing paper-mache balloons powered by a small flame. I pictured them both as I saw them in their black-and-white photographs. Both were skinny and in their awkward preteen bodies, but with a smile that made anyone want to jump straight into the picture and bathe in that wonderful moment.

That’s how I liked to picture my parents instead of the frail cold bodies they left behind. I decided to relive the memories they used to tell me late on nights when I couldn’t fall asleep. This is why at 21 I was alone in my parent’s hometown, miles away from anything or anyone familiar. I’d spent most of the day visiting my parents’ old homes, aunts, uncles, cousins … all family members I’d never met, but who were ecstatic to have a family member from El Norte visit them.

Although I had plenty of offers from them to stay the night, I was exhausted and needed time to absorb my first day here. After an hour of getting lost and circling around streets with names “Galeana” and “Hidalgo,” I came to a small motel called the 4 Caminos.  It stood in a corner behind a big red wall that connected to smaller homes on both of its sides. In the middle of all the red, stood a small black metal door with four fog window panels. I looked up at the name again, painted on carefully in black.

Almost immediately after I gave the door a couple of nervous knocks, a small round woman with hair black as night opened the door and, while nodding to the side, welcomed me in. I took a step inside and was startled by the beauty of this small mission-style motel. The whole middle was a square plaza that contained an old fountain in the center. The rooms stood around the edge of the perimeter and the vast starry night acted as the roof of 4 Caminos.

I told the woman I needed a single room and after signing in, she took me up a set of stairs to Room 7. She unlocked the door and slowly turned around, taking a couple of small steps before looking back at me with her big gentle brown eyes, “Espero que encuentres lo que estás buscando.” And just like that, she was halfway down the stairs.

“I hope you find what you’re looking for.” Her words clung to my tongue and felt heavy.

Going into the small room, I realized how quiet it had gotten and how alone I felt. Here I was, wanting to learn more about a culture, my culture, that flowed up my roots and into my veins, yet there was a void in all this searching. I let my body collapse onto the soft white sheets of the bed and slowly began to be swallowed by the darkness of sleep as I pictured my parents standing at the edge of the bed.

Boom!  A loud deep sound threw me off the bed.  I kept hearing it, like a heartbeat. I put my hand across my chest. It was beating quick, too quick to be the source of the sound. I ran outside where I could hear whispering alongside the thumping noises. It was the whisper of many people.

With the light of the moon, I made my way toward the front of the motel. There was a small room behind the check-in desk with light pouring out of the open door. I went in, but there was no sign of the woman except for a small bed with a cross hanging at the head of it.

The noise got louder. I could feel the thumping through the ground now. I heard a set of quick small steps and the front door close. Both from fear and wonder, I sped to the door and slowly made my way outside. Everything seemed to be still until from around the corner, came a parade.

It was a whole wave of colors, flowers and skulls. Everyone had painted their bodies like skeletons. Day of the Dead, I immediately thought. I had forgotten all about the holiday, the day people encourage the souls of deceased family members to come and visit.

As if she had been waiting for me to finish my thought, the motel woman came out from the shadows, fully dressed for the occasion, grabbed my hand and pulled me into the parade that had already gone halfway past me. It was like an actual wave, maybe even a sea itself. Instantly, I felt a part of everyone. We were all one and heading to the graveyard to greet our families. For the first time, I began to feel full and present.