My grandmother Maria was an amazing woman... a modern woman but demure and modest, she was very beautiful and different, she was my father's mother. She was born in Asturias, Spain and when she was very young she was orphaned, so she and her siblings were divided between godmothers and godfathers.

It was the time of the Spanish Civil War, so many Spaniards migrated to Latin America, she, with her godparents, arrived in Cuba fleeing Franco's regime. She lost contact with her family, aunts, uncles, brothers and grandparents. But that did not stop her. She became Cuban in her habits and customs.

In her youth she met Angel, a beautiful blue-eyed man who shared certain similarities with her, who also came to the American continent fleeing the Spanish war, but he was Andalusian and his destination was Maracaibo, in Venezuela. Angel, my grandfather, was a merchant sailor who one day left for Cuba and on one of his trips around the island he noticed that translucent girl full of charm.

They fell in love.

My grandfather, 'Tachao' (as his children called him years later) traveled to Cuba whenever he could, looking for Maria, whom he promised to marry. But my Maria, in spite of being in love, also fled from his proposals, I imagine that she was frightened by the bearing of this boy, as beautiful as she was.

After a long insistence of five years, Tachao managed to marry Maria in Cuba and soon they settled in Maracaibo. Santa Lucia is a musical place, they had six children there, and Maria was a fierce mother. My uncle Lindo was called ugly when he was born, so my grandmother started calling him lindo, making everyone, even the family forget his name.

My grandparents' house occupied an entire block, it had an inner courtyard and looked like a castle, I loved to be in that place. My father tells me that when he was a child he had a pedal car similar to the Formula 1, he used to drive it around the sidewalk of his house, while his aya took care of him, he also tells me that every year they sent his racing car to change its color, so my father wouldn't get bored playing with it.

The family's life depended on the Port of Maracaibo, and therefore on the banana industry established by the USA in the state of Zulia. My father used to tell me that in my grandmother's combing machine there was a drawer filled to the top with 5 bolivar coins, just one of which represented a small fortune at that time. My father took one every day and he assures that the amount never diminished.

When his children grew up and wanted to take different directions, the family, together with their children, moved to Caracas to expand their horizons. They looked for an old house that looked like a Spanish villa or a castle, and I liked that structure so much that I ended up living in a place that looks very similar.

At the end of her years my grandmother Maria was losing her words, especially after Tachao died, what she never lost was that lady-like bearing in black and white that she looked so gracefully and that accompanied her until her death. It could be said that color never entered her life, but that is impossible having grown up in the Caribbean tropics. She never again cut her hair, which she braided daily and reached the floor.

When I was a little girl I used to take her braids and herd her like a horse, back then they still didn't reach the floor. My uncle Lindo would always tell me to leave grandma alone, Maria even with a few words, would reply that I was just playing and to let me play.

My grandmother left her mark on everyone who knew her, and my dad, who died five years ago, repeated before he died: María.... Maria... Maria.