My abuelo is a farmer
He doesn’t just DO farm work.
He IS a farmer, from his hands and feet all the way to his heart.
I"m looking out the window of our old bus.
I see him kneeling in the little garden we planted on the used land beside us.
He’s tending some bean plants, after a long day in the peach orchards and tomato fields.
His skin is the color of newly plowed rows of farm land.
Sweat is dripping off of his forehead, mixing with the sun and soil, nourishing the plants so they can grow.
When he comes into the bus, he'll smell of the humble smell of dirt.
I think my abuelo’s heart is faithful and soft.
It's like a big, beautiful Better Boy tomato swaying quietly in the winds of southern, summer skies.
His soul is bright and gentle, like a yellow ear of sweet corn wrapped gently in tender husks, protected from the searing sun, woolly worms, and harshness of life.
His mind is persistent and broad, like an engine running a plow, working through problems, fixing anything, accepting me, and allowing me to grow as the land accepts the seed and allows it to flourish.
His strength is helping and enduring, like the donkey that pulls the old plow over the land, like the plow itself, like the land itself.
Yes, he IS a farmer, a person of the land, and he's my favorite farmer.
Just as he sows the seed and gathers fruits and vegetables, so he sows faith, hope, and love into mine and mamí’s corazones.
He gathers us to himself.
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