Hypothermia

consistency, with larger granules. She remembered when they first covered the windows of our apartment in Coyoacán; she had tried to brush them off with her hand but they stuck to her fingers. Everything’s like that in Mexico, she said: tougher, harder to shake off.
    Although it was hot and the humidity was outrageous—as always, in the summer—a southerly breeze made the second leg of the trip pleasant as we cycled to the zoo. We rode along in quasi-military formation: Cathy in the lead keeping an eye out for any obstacles, then our two kids on their mountain bikes, and me covering the rear of the pack to make sure no one got left behind.
    We ate lunch at an open-air restaurant. Before continuing our ride, Cathy and the children visited the primate exhibit. As usual, I stayed outside to have a smoke: the chimpanzees and gorillas in their glass boxes reminded me too much of myself: despite being in exile, they lived a better life, now safer and better fed than in the miserable forests where they’d been captured. When we got back on the bike paths, the sky was already painted like an ominous stage scrim. The breeze was picking up, turning into wind. We considered the situation while we struggled to help the kids strap on their bike helmets. Since we were already closer to the river than home, we figured it was better to keep going. If necessary, we could always take the Metro back from downtown.
    The truth is that we continued our outing only at my insistence: Cathy’s memory of how the ashes from Popoca-tépetl clung to our hands when we tried to clean them off made me think of my grandmother—her ashes were the stickiest I’ve ever encountered. I felt for some reason that riding into the wind would cleanse my conscience of them.
    My father’s family, from whom I surely inherited my habit of constantly moving around—from one house, country, or spouse to another—has deep roots in the teaching profession: to this day, many of my relatives live likewise peripatetic lives, off in countries where producing or reproducing knowledge is actually a well-respected job. Several years ago, my paternal grandmother made the stupid mistake of dying suddenly, and on Holy Thursday eve, in the rather remote village of Autlán. Because one of her sons, and several grandchildren, were unable to make travel arrangements in time to attend the funeral Mass, it was decided to postpone the interment of her ashes in our family crypt until the following Monday. I managed to arrive on Saturday afternoon, just in time for the cremation. I also got to witness the very strange moment when my father and my uncles, after arguing about whether it was better to leave the ashes in the car until the ceremony began, or else bring them inside the house, finally decided on the latter. With a discomfort bordering on the ridiculous, they placed the urn on the sideboard by the table as if it were going to preside one last time over a family meal. It was decided by everyone that the youngest of us cousins would sleep in the house. Not having grown up there, we wouldn’t find it so depressing to spend the night and stand the final watch.
    It’s not often that my family has so many relatives gathered under one roof, as we were that night under our grandmother’s. The mournful atmosphere in the room, still so heavy when we sat down at the table, receded after the first couple of whiskeys, especially because more relatives kept knocking on the door, sometimes simply to pay their respects and sometimes because they were just arriving from the bus station. Our vigil didn’t exactly turn into a party, not quite, but considering both the occasion and the fact that the ashes of its guest of honor were in attendance, the night was surprisingly relaxed.
    Around midnight, or maybe one in the morning, my father and his brothers said goodnight, and headed over to our relatives’ houses to sleep. It was then that my sister, Nena, raised her eyebrows at me with a conspiratorial look. She glanced toward the sideboard where my grandmother’s ashes had stood watch over the excessive number of cocktails drunk in her honor.
    The door had barely closed behind the older mourners when all of us cousins who had stayed behind made an urgent—and frankly ridiculous—dash for the urn. We all held back a moment until Nena herself, the devious ringleader of our riskiest childhood expeditions, stepped forward. She placed the urn on the table and removed the lid,