Day 1 with cookies made by the mother’s hands, alongside matecitos and reading, wishes increasingly inclined toward simplicity: health for you, for us, for the babies, the kind of love that is worth the prayers, the care, the gentleness—against the internal and external storm, against the tyranny of the shadow in pain. May resistance find us patient, joyful, touched by the fact of being alive, without forgetting that we are always at the edge of the abyss; nothing is guaranteed, everything is temporary: the thought, the body, that self to which those who feel divided, lonely, abandoned, cling so tightly. Everything is illusion, from clay we came and to clay we shall return. We are Sisyphus, la changa contemplating the mountain, the frantic ecstatic of concrete and dopamine, the priest reading Kusch, the woman who lifts, washes, caresses, cooks, organizes, carries, brings, supports, endures, and we dissolve into the spiral of what we fail to glimpse through logic. We close our eyes, we sigh. We invoke the simplicity of cookies made by the mother’s hands, matecitos, reading, health for you, for us, the babies, the kind of love that is worth the prayers, the care, the gentleness.