###                           Grains of Salvation #                           Hungry, the searching fingers sink                           disappearing into the watery terrace.                           An earthly breath caresses                           exuberant green crests, emergent.                           The feet, the ankles, they know _the roots_;                           they know _the grounds_                           to endure the toil in this transient labor.                           A myriad of toes frolic in muddy luxury,                           while two gaping eyes rest in the distance and marvel:                            “Look! The tender grains of salvation.”                           The hearty children are in their fresh husks, still                           alien to humanity, but akin                           to the camouflaged hand of the peasant.                           Their moist will be drained;                           their meekness and their mildness, devoured,                           tossed among the fangs of the wonders                           of civilization.                           Beyond the lush fields, they’ll be a million of millions                           filling the round bellies of a round world,                           for a life’s thin sake.

I loved white rice when I was little, but my mother never left me eat it unless my bowl contained some animal protein, too. She was blunt. I’d learned to take things for granted. I was little and lived a plenty life in a home well provided for. We were poor in many ways, but I never realized it. We had food on the table everyday, so I knew we weren’t “poor” like my grandmother told me about our family during the dictatorship of Marcos Pérez Jiménez in the 50’s. But all those stories (about going to bed without supper or without any meal at all, or hiding from the police) seemed even farther than they were--surreal. Then a really dark and long hour started for my country, and I found myself working two jobs, 85 hours a week… and reliving a story of the past (which end is yet to be written). Now I don’t take things for granted, but it’s been a high price to pay. Ever since I learned what is like to provide for your children, human and animal, in times of scarcity and oppression, knowing no hero will come to the rescue, I finally understood what a great and malicious enterprise the fear of hunger is. Paradoxically, I also learned there’s some sort of sanctity to it. One day--or many days--I was walking down the street and saw some people eating from the garbage, then I knew a bowl of white rice makes wonders indeed. It is then when you think everything is over, but you realize there are others doing a lot worse than you are, that you understand the holiness of a grain of rice and how it is worth all the effort. It is not a miracle that just happens; it's holy work.