Fields

He was on his way to pick grapes; traveling ‘cross America on a Greyhound; came from Ecuador, Guatemala, some place in Latin America. He couldn’t speak English. Words were broken in two. Used a lot of hand gestures.

I could tell he was going North to the vineyards. Tons of em go to the wineries this time of year. Out in the fields all day picking purple, red, and white grapes. Sleeping in shacks. Sending money back home to family, wives, mothers, sisters and brothers. A completely different way than the American way of life. Americans are funny about money. Funnier about family.

He kept looking out the window as we drove past small towns, rolling hills, billboards he couldn’t read, trees bare in the Autumn sun. He’d look over at me, smile, and point at farm equipment out there in corn fields, soy, alfalfa. He was able to say, One day amigo. One day.

I smiled back at him, nodded my head and said, Yeah. One day.

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