Her feet were calloused and cracked.
They were like rocks in the ground, the ground she walked barefooted with her grandfather as he turned the earth with donkey and a plow.
She had the feet of her grandfather.
She walked beside him down the long rows of beans and corn from the time she learned to toddle.
He walked down those rows until his feet were broken and bent in ways that made him continuously genuflect to God, or to the land owners, or to the land itself.
Her feet were in the soil.
They were part of the land.
They knew the mystery of how seed and dirt and sunlight and water become beans in pods and corn in husks.
Her heart was in her feet.
Her heart was in the land.
Her heart was the mystery.
Her feet spoke.
Her heart whispered.
“Estoy aquí.”
“I am here.”
- trevor scott barton, stories for a brown-eyed girl, 2020
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