Flores de Mayo was a time for us kids to enjoy while the heat of tropical summer was dying down. We would gather all kinds of flowers from our neighbours as well as from the wild. Kids who lived near the forests always had more than those of us who lived in the central village or población.

My mother, my other two siblings, and I lived at our grandmother’s house where she had grown lots of healthy bougainvilleas. We didn’t have to go far if there were enough blooms. Children went to the church comfortably in flip-flops and shorts at around three in the afternoon. The catechist gathered us on the first three pews from the front and we prayed and sang Ave Maria together.

The parish church was a huge chapel that dwarfed in comparison with the cathedrals of the world. The parish coffers were proportional to the generosity and wealth of the parishioners, which wasn’t much. We took our turns to march towards the altar in rows of three or five, depending on how many of us showed up. The Virgin was waiting for us with her outstretched hands ready to shower us her blessings. She stood from the towering height of the table in her immaculate white gown, gloriously flowing down like clouds by her feet. We offered our flowers in symmetry and discipline, although there would always be someone giggling.

The last course of offering would be all of us together processioning towards the Virgin, circled her and showered her with the most colourful and fragrant of all flowers while we sang our hearts out to her, “Adiós, adiós!” The reward for our good deeds was having snacks afterward, only if some souls had offered more than enough harvest and goods at that day’s Mass.