This picture was taken an incredible amount of years ago, in a calm October, in our first house in Bogotá. We were having fun in the backyard; my father taking pictures, my mother talking with him, my brothers and I playing around. I was climbing that big cherry tree that got loaded every December, straddling our neighbor’s wall, trying to make a bow and arrows out of the smaller branches of the tree, taunting and yelling at my neighbor, and jumping up and down with my striped pants and splotched colorful shirt.
She was this very happy lawyer, her title as doctor in cassation recently obtained. I was in first grade, my father HR manager of a big company. The memories of that life get mixed with the ones of my last years in Colombia, but small pieces get trapped in the photo album, the stories I hear, the things I dream. The days at school haven’t yet got any significance, my brothers are getting the idea of being social, and my aunts are late for something. Sometimes I revisit that place, that day in my memory, in my hopes.
There is so much in those eyes, that hair, that smile! At that moment I have two small brothers, which I consider crazy even to this day, my father is still smoking two packs a day, and I get my first ideas about politics since I am the only liberal in my school’s conservative environment. My mother, however, smiles. She knows that life is just a series of moments, and she is clearly enjoying that instant. She was wise, determined, brave. She used to fight with incredible tenacity, competed permanently, and was incredibly subtle, marvelously expressive.
There are some tape recordings of her, singing and reciting. Where are those?
That day tasted like cherries and ice cream, smooth as silk, languid and without hurries. We were at peace with the world, we enjoyed each others company, the family was complete, happy, hopeful.
This is a good memory. Love you, Mother, wherever you are.