I walked with my abuelo across the fIelds and farms of South Carolina.
Our skin was wrinkled and worn, like weathered pairs of leather shoes.
We worked the land, bent down over new plants, building up the soil around their stems, tenderly telling them we were there to help them grow into sunflowers, tomatoes and humble beans.
We walked and worked until our feet took on the red color and rich texture of the soil.
We knelt down together over the last plant in the row.
It was smaller and weaker than the rest of the plants, for reasons we didn’t not know.
“Maybe it’s because it didn’t get enough nutrients or sunlight or water to help it grow and thrive,” I said, “But only enough to barely live.”
We didn’t take the small, weak plant into out hands and toss it aside because of it’s smallness and weakness.
No, we didn’t do that.
Instead, we caressed it the little plant.
We patted extra soil around it.
We sang gently to it in Spanish, "Ah, little friend, little part of our hearts, we will tend you, we will care for you, we will help you live and grow."
We looked closely at the little plant, so closely the sweat on our foreheads dripped onto the ground around it like soft rain.
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