Rafa cried for days when our mother died. And then he stopped.
It was as if he'd shed all the water and sorrow from his body. He didn't need to lie in Hipólita's skirts anymore or for her to stroke his hair, or cool his forehead with a damp cloth, because he'd stopped crying.
He'd simply stopped. He would never cry for our mother again.
We four orphaned children, Rafa, Juana, Juan Vicente and myself attended the funeral at the Cathedral in Caracas.
It was a morbid affair.
Nuns in brooding black, men from the Audencia, the de León brothers. Men our father would have known had he still been alive. Aunt Josefa with her narrow forehead and false sorrow (she never liked Mama). Uncle Carlos who blubbered like a child- our mother made him a better man, he told anyone who would listen.
Priests who hardly knew her spoke of her demeanor, her kindness.
They did not speak of her love for her children, her singing, or how she danced.
When we were at the farm San Mateo, in the valley of Aragua, away from the rigid formalities of our own creole society, from the austere rules imposed upon us by class, religion, and the impervious time in which we lived, our mother, Doña María de la Concepción de Palacios y Blanco, sometimes danced with us, her children.
We sequestered ourselves in the courtyard of the house, hidden to any prying eyes. We danced, unseen, to the music the slaves played in their own quarters, out back. We danced to the heavy beat of the fantiashanti, the long drum remembered from Africa, or to a fulia, which was played especially during the harvest.
The music was unavoidable, sometimes indistinct. It drifted through the house on the sweet scent of boiled sugar cane and jacaranda.
Our aunts and uncles would be shocked if they knew. A woman of good standing. A Palacios, lifting her skirts, twirling and dancing to the savage African rhythms of her own slaves.
I wanted to remember her this way: eyes closed, hair pinned neatly in a chignon, a dancing mother in long skirts. A mother who loved her children and protected us from the world. A happy, generous spirit who always thought of others before herself.
I knew our mother didn't care so much for the material possessions of our home, and she had many. She would give away her trinkets to her friends, to us, to any of the servants and sometimes even a slave.
She left me feeling slightly ashamed for wanting.
YOU ARE READING
Antonia
Historical FictionLate 17th century when Venezuela was still a colony, Spain was at war again and Antonia's mother has just died. She is 18 years old, restless, rebellious, and promised to a marriage she does not want. Her horrible aunt rules the house now, but Anton...
