A personal kitchen chorus

All my doubts (or my fears to be honest) about banging the pots were dispelled when I saw the images of the First of May for a few seconds on the TV, I couldn’t hold back any more. Even my mother who is a skeptic said, “But we’re in an epidemiological alert! I’d like to see the face of the ‘doctor’ on the Round Table TV show on May 30 who said there was ‘no risk’ to the massing of thousands of people under the sun in 85 degree weather, I wish I could remember his name… I wonder, at times, how he can sleep.”

A little before the pot banging it was raining cats and dogs, half soaked I got to Yoani’s house at 8:30 exactly when we began, we stopped, hoping to hear an echo but nothing: a solitary kitchen chorus, we baptized it later between laughter and disappointment. Ciro, always the performer, walked along the train line, his little pot and spoon in hand, playing a strange little salsa beat: no one responded but no one asked him anything either.

So while in Cuba the pots still don’t sound, because of people’s fear, the minds sound, and that has to mean something.