Catrá, catrá, cotró, cotró: this is how my drum resonates. My hands clatter on a box, my hands learning the guaguancó and Alexander, my rumba teacher scolds me: "no and no, we're not going anywhere like this: we're in the El Vedado neighborhood in Havana." Patio with peeling walls, silent magic flies over. The sounds of the tumbaol and the tre-do resonate, the yambú and the columbia resonate, and the immortal key resonates and resonates. Cracra, cra, cra cra: my drumsticks clatter on two pans to the rhythm of a deranged conga. I forgot who I came from: now I am rhythm. Ochún and Eleguá watch attentively after their candy banquet. A child plays without a ball, the quiet magic flies silently over - February 2000