Her feet were calloused and cracked.
They seemed like rocks in the ground, the ground she walked over barefoot with her grandfather as he turned the earth with donkey and plow.
She had the feet of her grandfather.
She walked beside him down the long rows of tomatoes and peaches from the time she could toddle.
He walked down those rows until his feet were broken and bent in a way that made him continually genuflect to God, or to the land owners, or to the land itself.
When her feet were in the soil, it was as if they were a part of the land, as if they held the secrets of the earth, as if they knew the mystery of seed and dirt and water becoming vegetables and fruit.
Her heart was in her feet, her heart was in the land, her heart was the mystery.
Her feet spoke eloquently.
"Estoy aquí.
I am here.”
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