LUÍS

**

Tumaco, Nariño—Colombia, circa 1993

I didn't meet my father until I was nine. That day was the first and last time I met with him.

Mama never talked about him. Never. Didn't even utter his name. We lived in a small house in Tumaco, a town by the sea that borders Ecuador. We made a living selling fruit, flowers and cocoa beans on the street close to the port, sharing the stand with my mother's friend, Maite. We were poor, but I didn't mind; it was just me and her. I was content.

My mother was beautiful. She had skin darker than the cocoa beans we sold and hair as thick as wool, always braided into weaving rows on her head. She always said the only things I shared with her were her eyes and