By Cindy Santos Bravo

 (a childhood memory)

I look at my hands and see small brown spots individual and unique, and a reminder that I dug into the ground a little too deep.  My grandma and grandpa’s home had a small vegetable garden with potatoes, cornstalks, lettuce and tomatoes, which was my grandpa’s oasis during the hot summer months in Texas.  My grandpa asked me and my cousins to help pick vegetables, and without words asked us to be a part of what he cherished in his life.  I remember the sun, the heat, sitting on the dirt and feeling my hands go into a mound of ants.  The rush of fire ants swarmed both my hands leaving me frozen and in shock. The sight of the ants was felt in silence.  I cannot recall one sound, but I do remember my grandpa swooping me into his arms and my grandma being so gentle as the small and ferocious ants drained down the sink.  I walk around this earth with very little memories of having grandparents because my grandma passed-away when I was 6 and my grandpa lived his life with a reserved demeanor, but in this single day I was welcomed into my grandpa’s world and saw my grandma provide me with safety and love.