There are conversations that do not end when someone leaves. They change form. They become a whisper, memory, an inner echo. Since you’re no longer here, Mom, this is how I speak to you: in your ear. Not to ask for answers, but to keep refining the way of being alive.
For me, you were always joy, delight, generosity, solidarity, authenticity. You were music before you were words. You were light before explanation. You loved to dance. For you, the body was a form of thought, a way of saying what words could not reach. A few days ago, at the Librería Nacional, you spoke to me about Isadora Duncan. For you, she was freedom without a mask, truth without a pose. She said that dance is the movement of the universe concentrated in a person. When you danced, it felt exactly like that: the body remembering something essential, breathing without fear, trusting, letting go, inhabiting the present. Watching you, I understood that living is not about control, but about conscious surrender.
You taught me to love simple things. To watch sunrises as if they were premieres. To thank sunsets as if they were farewells. To persevere when something truly matters. Not to make myself small before the world. To be faithful to who I am, even when it isn’t comfortable. You taught me to fly without losing my grounding.
I am the woman I am because of you and my dad. Because of your coherence, your joy, your way of being in life without asking permission. For years you repeated to me, almost like a silent ritual, that I was the most beautiful girl in the world. You didn’t say it as a compliment, but as a conviction. With that, you taught me something deeper than vanity: the possibility of inhabiting myself without asking permission, of believing in myself before having evidence, of not depending on an external mirror to feel enough. That certainty never left. It gave me roots and wings at the same time. Security without confinement. Freedom without vertigo.
Today I understand that this is one of the greatest gifts a mother can give, and also one of the greatest assets for adult life: an inner confidence that doesn’t depend on applause, a personal compass that allows difficult decisions without self-betrayal. In a world obsessed with performance, you taught me something deeper: the dignity of authenticity, the emotional intelligence of joy, the invisible discipline of gratitude.
I will miss you in a way that words cannot contain. But even in this pain there is a serene clarity: I will honor you by living. Eating more ice cream. Hugging more. Saying “I love you” more often. Dancing and singing without reason. Choosing life with joy and courage. Not hardening. Not forgetting to look at the sky.
Thank you to life for you, Mom. You live in me, in your granddaughters, in every person you touched with your energy and your love. That is your legacy: a luminous way of inhabiting the world. I will keep walking, smiling, building. Everything I am carries your imprint. Your songs keep playing in the way I look at life. Your dance appears every time I trust, every time I let myself go, every time I choose not to be afraid.
I speak to you in your ear, Mom, because that’s how I feel you: close, clear, still accompanying me, always.