Verses and Sunflowers: A Sunday in Casino Campestre

Yesterday was Sunday—a day I dedicated to household chores and, above all, to remembering. I’ve always said there’s no day that fills me with more nostalgia than that one. While drafting an article for my blog, I recalled a special day, another Sunday, just over a year ago, one worth sharing and remembering.

Once upon a Sunday—exactly a year ago—time decided to pause among the royal palms of Casino Campestre. We gathered there, a few word-crazy souls who still believe poetry can be a kite soaring on the evening breeze. It was Children’s Day, and the soul of Camagüey smelled of freshly cut sunflowers.

I wore white, like a page waiting for a thousand stories, with a hat that held summer in its yellow petals. My companions arrived with rhymes hidden in their pockets, metaphors gleaming like gold coins under the sun. Some had faces painted with butterflies and smiling dragons—as if we’d drunk from the ink of fairy tales.

The park became a chorus, and a few children approached us beneath the ancient ceiba tree. Verses tumbled from our hands; some told lively stories like seeds, and the children—little curious birds—gathered them with laughter.

Oh, the music of that day! The rustle of leaves blending with the eager "What happens next?" of the little ones. One child took my hand to tell me his own story—about a dog that spoke in décimas—and I knew then we’d achieved the impossible: planting a forest of fantasy in the heart of the city.

I’d prepared simple gifts for the most enthusiastic, and as the event ended, I saw in the children’s eyes that special spark only well-told stories can ignite. And we, the adults who’d been children again for a few hours, took away something more valuable than applause: the certainty that we’d woven, with threads of ink and tenderness, a memory that would never fade.

Now, whenever I pass by Casino Campestre, I swear I hear the echo of that Sunday: the palms whispering the verses we planted, the sunflowers on my hat blooming once more in memory. Because gifting childhood—even for just an afternoon—is the purest form of magic there is.

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