Before photography, languages, and travel, my life began among petals. I grew up in Cabimas in a family of florists who worked inside the municipal cemetery. Our routine didn’t smell like breakfast, but like freshly cut stems, cold rooms, and thorns that stayed in our skin like tiny lessons.
Everyone called my grandmother Aura Mejía “Margarita” — not just because she sold flowers, but because she bloomed every weekend. She turned a small stall into her own family empire, gathering children and grandchildren around tables filled with roses, chrysanthemums, and sunflowers. That’s where I learned to lose my fear of people, to work as a team, and to understand that some farewells are given in beauty.
My childhood was made of floral arrangements, plastic buckets, wet earth, and botanical names that now sound like poetry. Even after I left Venezuela, flowers continued to show up in my life like silent reminders. Maybe out of instinct, whenever I could, I bought one… just to fill the absence of that familiar scent.
The last time I arranged flowers with her was in October 2023, not knowing that moment would remain suspended like a photograph that needs no camera. It was a Saturday like many others, except this time I realized I wasn’t helping, I was saying goodbye to the place where I learned how to grow.
My life is now far from Cabimas, surrounded by cameras, languages, and different landscapes. Yet I still feel flowers walking beside me. Because my roots grew with Margarita, and even if I no longer hold petals in my hands, there are loves that never stop blooming.
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