When you’re old enough to understand

In memory of my mother who left so much unsaid

Close to five decades later, I still recall the long table with a white linen tablecloth, polished silverware, massive chandeliers, the waiters dressed in white, cloths hanging from their folded left arms. In my child’s mind, the image of that table became the benchmark of elegance.

It must have been around 1970. I was five years old and Laura, my sister, was seven. It was a special day for us. The president of Colombia, Misael Pastrana Borrero, was inaugurating the country’s first satellite antenna in Chocontá, a municipality a few hours’ drive from Bogotá. My father, who served as the president’s chief of staff, had been invited to bring his family to the inauguration and the official luncheon following the ceremony. The governor of the state of Cundinamarca, the mayor of Chocontá, and a few high-ranking military officials would also attend.

“We will witness the arrival of modernity,” my father said as we left the house.

We were the only children attending and were told to behave appropriately. My mother was a Spaniard of noble descent. Her beauty never went unnoticed. That day, she stood out from the crowd like an antelope in a herd of cattle. She wore her chestnut hair in a chignon, held back with a flamenco-style comb, a pleated midi skirt, and a silk shirt with bell sleeves, and her legendary cape. The cape I remember vividly; the rest of her outfit, I was recently reminded of when I came across a box of old family…