Her feet were cracked and calloused.
They were like rocks in the ground, the ground she walked barefooted with her abuelo as he turned the earth with donkey and plow.
She had her abuelo’s feet.
She toddled beside him down the long rows of tomato plants and peach trees from the time she learned to walk.
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 the soil.
They were the land.
They knew the mystery of how seed and dirt and sunlight and water become tomatoes on vines and peaches on branches.
Her heart was her feet.
Her heart was the land.
Her heart was the mystery.
Her feet spoke.
Her heart whispered.
“Estoy aquí.”
“I am here.”
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