from Little Salt’s journal
My abuelo is a farmer.
I see him kneeling in the little garden beside our bus, planting the plants.
His skin is the color of the newly plowed rows.
Sweat is dripping off of his forehead, mixing with the sun and soil, nourishing the seeds so they can grow.
When he comes into the bus, he smells of the humble smell of dirt.
His heart is faithful and soft.
It's like a big, beautiful Better Boy tomato swaying quietly in the whispering winds of the southern, summer skies.
His soul is bright and gentle.
It’s like a yellow ear of sweet corn wrapped gently in tender husks, protecting itself from the searing sun and woolly worms.
His mind is persistent and broad.
It’s 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 grow.
His strength is helping and enduring.
It’s like the Farmall tractor of the land owner, a tractor that keeps him from struggling behind a mule and a plow.
Yep, he's a farmer, a person of the land.
He’s my favorite farmer.
Just as he sows the seed and gathers our garden every year, so he sows faith, hope, and love into me and gathers mamí and me to himself.
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