Historias y Granadas

las Manos de mi padre

Written by Christie Tirado

As the Saturday afternoon sun gently caressed his tejana, el canto de los gallo’s pierced the ambience, blending seamlessly with the comforting aroma of la tierra and burning firewood, weaving a tapestry of all too familiar memories. A soft breeze carried the fallen leaves of the pomegranate tree circling the eucalyptus trunk where he was seated.

As he delicately peeled back the skin of the granada, revealing the tiny garnets within, I watched him as he gently plucked each seed, making sure not to apply too much pressure to prevent them from bursting. Una por una, one by one, some of the semillas found their way into the palm of his hand, while others danced away, falling into the tierra beneath our feet. As I observed his tender precision, memorias escritas en sus manos seemed to sprinkle out. However, unlike the seeds that were falling onto the floor, I was catching these memories, recalling the countless times I’ve witnessed esas mismas manos come home from work, weathered, tired and aching from the countless jobs he’s had to do to live the American dream.

Esas son las mismas manos that migrated al norte, navigating the treacherous currents of el río grande, only to find themselves scrubbing dishes in a bustling Chicago restaurant.

Esas son las mismas manos that mastered the art of sharpening knives, only to wield them in the cold confines of a Minnesota meat processing plant.

Esas son las mismas manos that learned the delicate dance of sewing, hemming, and stitching fabrics together under the fluorescent lights of a clothing factory in Los Angeles.

Esas son las mismas manos that gripped the wheel of Greyhound buses, shuttling passengers between the bustling borders of Tijuana and the sun-drenched shores of San Diego.

Esas son las mismas manos that measured and cut wood with precision, each hammer strike echoing  as he drove thousands of framing nails into  2 by 4’s for a mattress framing company in Washington.

Esas son las mismas manos that  braved the biting cold of North Dakota winters, shaping and smoothing concrete to lay the foundations of the buildings and homes that we occupy.

Esas son las mismas manos that would rise before dawn, so they could work two jobs back-to-back only to get home close to midnight and do it again for decades.

Esas son las mismas manos que me han enseñado cómo trabajar duro, sin tener que trabajar lo duro que él ha trabajado.

Estas son las manos de mi Padre, whose stories are silently etched not only in the palms of his hands but also in the seeds of his labor, scattered like those precious semillltas that danced on la tierra beneath our feet on that warm saturday afternoon. 

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