Her feet were calloused and cracked.
They looked like rocks in the ground, like stones in the soil, the ground and soil she walked over barefooted beside her abuelo.
She had the feet of her abuelo.
She’d walked beside him down the long rows of beans and corn since she was a toddler.
He’d walked down those rows until his feet were broken and bent.
That made him appear to be continually genuflecting to God, or to the wealthy land owner, or to the land itself.
Her feet were like that, too.
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 how a seed, dirt, water and sunlight become a peach on a tree or a tomato on a vine.
Her heart was in her feet, her heart was in the land, her heart was in the mystery itself.
Her feet spoke eloquently, "Estoy aquí, estoy aquí, I am here, I am here."
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