When Your Dead Wife Becomes Your Ultimate Wingman... to the Afterlife

If the 19th century ever gave birth to a character, it was surely Don Epigmenio Guajardo. Born in Zaragoza, Coahuila, right around the time steam engines were starting to snort their way across the prairies, young Epigmenio arrived with the force of a spring thunderstorm and a penchant for embracing life as wildly and fully as the rolling Sierras surrounding him. He was brash, unbothered, and often irritatingly sure of himself. But, and here’s the rub, he had charm. One of those cheerfully reckless types, the sort who could sweet-talk a rattlesnake without getting bitten—most of the time, anyway.

Young Epigmenio’s charms didn’t go unnoticed. He wooed and won a pretty local girl named Felipa Reyes, who, bless her heart, was the epitome of “for better or worse.” Felipa was everything Epigmenio wasn’t. A good Christian, she kept her head down, suffered quietly, and tended to the house and children as Epigmenio strode in and out like a cyclone. He was a man who treated his time and attention like a whirlwind, sweeping through their lives with the certainty that his wife, home, and brood of twelve (!) were not only in good hands but would be waiting on his whims.

Now, it’s worth mentioning here that Don Epigmenio had as much fidelity as a butterfly with attention issues. Oh, he was devoted to his children; let’s give the man that much. Weekends were sacred, if only because Epigmenio liked the idea of “Dad’s Day Out” (or perhaps “Dad’s Day In”) on a Saturday. But when it came to his affections, well, his eye wandered—constantly. This cheerful infidelity was both public and tolerated. People liked him, and he was the kind of man who made his friends eager matchmakers, practically lining up potential ladies as if he were running a county fair. In some cases, it seemed like half the townsfolk were in on the joke that this charismatic widower wasn’t about to stay down for long.

But there’s no real justice in these things, is there? Poor Felipa, who loved her husband with the quiet determination of a saint, was gradually worn down by his antics. While Epigmenio basked in his adventures, Felipa took her heartbreak to the grave, making a sainted widow of herself in the process. And, in true Epigmenio fashion, he shed no tears, feeling as much remorse as a tomcat in a fish market. Life was good, after all, and there were still plenty of good weekends to be spent, children to dote on, and who knew, perhaps more ladies to charm.

But time, that great humbler, never shows up late to the party. The years rolled on, with Epigmenio growing older but not necessarily wiser. Then came one All Saints' Day, when Epigmenio—who was likely enjoying a post-prandial nap—was roused by a chill in the air. He squinted into the half-light, and there she was, dear departed Felipa herself, looking at him with all the severity of a headmistress catching her pupil red-handed.

“Put your life in order,” she said, with a tone that could chill soup. “Your time is drawing near.”

Epigmenio, to his credit, woke up with a start and cast about the room to make sure he wasn’t just seeing things. But no, he was alone. He was left only with the fading scent of lilies and that stern admonition echoing through his head.

The next morning, though, Epigmenio didn’t just feel a presence. No, this time Felipa appeared as clearly as any sunrise over the Sierras, looking more exasperated than ever, which was saying something. “You have never changed, Epigmenio,” she told him, exasperation evident even in the hereafter. “Put your life in order, and say goodbye to whoever you must, because the year will not be over before I come for you.”

Now, Epigmenio might have been cheerful, reckless, and obstinate, but he wasn’t completely dense. If the good woman he had once broken a dozen vows over had bothered to come back to tell him to get his affairs in order, he figured the least he could do was heed her words. That very day, he rounded up his children. A motley crew of young men and women, they had grown up seeing their father’s zest for life and had each inherited a portion of his stubborn spirit. Some had gone off to study, others were running ranches or farms of their own, but each one held a measure of his charm and fire.

Sitting them down one by one, Don Epigmenio, with as much fatherly love as a man like him could muster, began his goodbyes. To the eldest, he gave words of wisdom (which, for Don Epigmenio, might have been a rare occurrence), to the youngest, he doled out hugs and encouragement, and to each in between, he gave a blessing of sorts—a man’s version of a legacy, one forged in the fires of a colorful life.

The Fastest Way to Die... With Your Wife's Approval

As winter descended on Coahuila, cloaking the landscape in a muted chill, December 30th brought with it a peculiar calmness to Don Epigmenio Guajardo. This wasn’t the same man who had barreled through life like a wildfire on horseback; this was a man haunted by visions of his late wife, Doña Felipa, who, if we’re to believe the tale, had recently appeared to him with a chillingly final ultimatum: his time was up. Was it a fevered dream or an actual visitation from beyond? Epigmenio himself couldn’t say. But what he did know, for perhaps the first time in his life, was fear.

And not the ordinary kind, mind you. This was the sort of dread that even a man who’d charmed half the women in Coahuila and fought his way through more than one bar brawl would hesitate to laugh off. You see, Doña Felipa, the very same woman who had endured his endless escapades with more patience than the saints themselves, had, from beyond the grave, declared that her wayward husband had 24 hours left on the clock.

The night was uncommonly still, the air heavy with something that could only be described as ominous. It was the kind of night where even the dogs seemed to know something was afoot. They howled like they were announcing the arrival of some unholy specter. The animals in the corral, too, grew skittish. And as the cold seemed to bite deeper than usual, Epigmenio saw her again, appearing through a ghostly mist with the same unassuming beauty she’d possessed in life.

“Tomorrow, Epigmenio,” she said with the kind of calm that would send chills up the spine of a priest, “will be the day.”

And with that, she faded into the mist, leaving him with more questions than he could count. But Epigmenio knew one thing: Doña Felipa wasn’t one to make idle threats, especially not when issuing them from the afterlife.

When morning broke on December 31st, the air was clear, as if nothing supernatural had happened in the quiet hours of the night. But Epigmenio felt an unshakable certainty that today was, indeed, his last day on this earth. He wasn’t about to waste it. So, he summoned his children, each one as bemused as the last, and with uncharacteristic sobriety, said his goodbyes. This was not the loud, boisterous, irresistible Don Epigmenio they had always known. This was a man grappling with his mortality, hugging each child tightly, perhaps a little longer than usual, before mounting his horse for what he knew would be his final ride.

You have to understand, Epigmenio wasn’t the kind of man to get all sentimental. To his friends, he was the master of indifference, to his children, the steadfast father, and to the local ladies—well, let’s just say he had his reputation. But on this last ride, he wasn’t just out for a stroll. He was heading to see his old friends and brothers-in-law, Pedro and Isidro Reyes, the two men who’d known him best, who’d stood by him during his years of widowerhood and, likely, witnessed his most shameless escapades. These were the men who would understand, who wouldn’t ask silly questions or require him to explain himself.

And so, he rode.

By five in the afternoon, Epigmenio had reached the falsetto, a crossroads of sorts. He dismounted, feeling the fatigue that only comes when a man’s soul is carrying a weight that his body can no longer bear. His vision blurred, and as he looked around the road where he’d spent countless days of his life, it seemed the world had grown distant. He found a spot to sit by the fence posts, gazing out over the dusty horizon as the light began to fade, and his thoughts drifted back to Felipa.

There, in the quiet, Epigmenio closed his eyes, surrendering to the fatigue of a man who’d loved, laughed, and fought his way through life without sparing a single day. When his family came to find him, worried that the famously stubborn Epigmenio hadn’t returned, they found him there by the falsetto. He was slouched peacefully, as though he’d merely drifted off into a comfortable nap. But his countenance held something almost unrecognizable: serenity.

Yes, Doña Felipa had kept her appointment. True to her word, she had come to collect him, and for once, Epigmenio hadn’t put up a fight. He’d accepted her terms with the quiet dignity of a man who’d lived unapologetically and was now content to leave with the same lack of fanfare he’d exhibited in life.

In-text Citation: (Taboada, 2021, pp. 31-32)