CAMAGÜEY.- No, it can't steal tomorrow's joy from us either. True, this year will be different. One of my friends will not be able to squeeze her sister on “her” first second Sunday in May. Another will fill the house with flowers before the temporary closure of the churchyard where she talks with the grandmother who named her. She will dance alone, or with few, because they will do the “big” rumba they don't know when, any day of any month in which we have overcome this new adversity together.

It will be a different Sunday and, instead, one like so many. Many mothers will celebrate, again, far from their own, given to the other "theirs": in the Home that drives away homelessness, in the hospital that saves, on the border that it protects. Faced with their daily sacrifices, before children who expect them daily, the distance that we all impose on ourselves now as the only salvation diminishes.

And there will be no lack of affection. Virtual hugs and kisses by phone and digital postcards ... it will be a different celebration, but an equal love, that which is cultivated and given every day, and which in these days is summarized in taking care of ourselves, from afar, or in the weekly visit to equip provisions to the elderly of the family, or in the hours that in "normal" life do not reach us and now we can dedicate ourselves, mothers and children, mothers and fathers, aunts and nephews, grandmothers and grandchildren. That we can learn that too, that every day can be May.

Translated by Linet Acuña Quilez