On September 11, 2001, I was living in Mexico City, preparing to go on a trip with a driver from a Mexico City mortuary. I was working in the capital at the time as a freelance writer.
Part of the mortuary’s business was to pick up the bodies of immigrants who had died in the United States and whose families had flown them home to be buried.
The mortuary would provide the service of retrieving the body and driving it back to the immigrant’s home village. That morning the body of an immigrant was due to arrive from Denver.
I was set to go with the driver to the airport and then to the village.
I called the mortuary and the owner told me, “There are no flights today. I think someone just bombed your country.”
I spent the next two weeks in front of a television.
