Johns Island has big peach orchards and tomato farms on it.
I am a hijo of those orchards, a niño of those farms, that grow peaches and tomatoes for the bigger, wider world around them.
My mamí and abuelo are migrant workers on them.
I am, too.
Most mornings, just before sunrise, I stand on the steps of our gutted out school bus/house and watch the world brighten to a peachy yellow, the color of peaches before they fully ripen behind the green leaves of the peach trees.
In the evening, just before sunset, I wonder on those same steps and watch the tomato-y red sun hang on the horizon, the color of a better boy tomato the day we pick it off the vine.
The long day in between is filled with cow milking, egg gatherin, weed hoeing, peach picking, tomato picking and cow milking again.
They days are good, though, because I have my mamí and my abuelo.
They love me.
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