Poetry

I am The Grape Picker’s Daughter

Poetic memoir

Daddy lost his job, and we lost our home. We pack our belongings into our station wagon in the back alley. In the night’s quiet, we move across town into Grandma’s small back bedroom. It’s the summer my daddy lost the tip of his finger working at the old brickyard that is near the spooky graveyards.

I’m ten and it’s early one summer morning. I smell fresh tortillas, beans, and coffee from grandma’s kitchen. Mommy says we need to use the bedroom window as a door. Five little girls make too much noise, so we have to crawl out the window to play in the backyard.

We not only lost our home, but we lost our bathroom too. The gray wooden outhouse that leans to one side in Grandma’s backyard is our bathroom now. We need to go two at a time to check for spiders and to help each other on the seat so we don’t fall in. It smells like something died and we have to cover our noses.

Daddy can’t work and stays in a bed in the backyard under a blanket tent. The night before, Mommy said she will go pick grapes in the morning to get some money for food. I tell her I want to go too. I’m a big girl, even if I’m just ten. My big sister Sissy is eleven. She can help daddy with our little sisters.

We are up before sunrise getting ready for the grape picker’s bus. I drink hot coffee with sweet canned milk like Mommy at the kitchen table. Grandma is rolling and cooking fresh tortillas on her cast-iron skillet. She gives me a bean burrito with butter. It warms my hands and tummy.

Grandma wraps two more burritos in a small dish towel for lunch. She packs them in the basket and adds a jar of cinnamon tea. I grab another tortilla and stuff it in my back jean pocket. I take one last gulp of my warm, milky coffee.

I kiss grandma goodbye. Mommy goes out the back wooden screen door to look and listen for the grape picker’s bus. I follow her out the back with our basket. The screen door slams shut. It’s quiet except for the bus’s motor rumbling from the front yard by the peach tree in the dirt driveway. The lights of the bus shine on the dirt path.

I follow her onto the grape picker’s bus. We find a seat at the back. She lets me sit next to the open window. She pats my head and tells me to take a nap. The bus smells like dust and sweat. The lazy mustard sun is peeking at me from the horizon. Mommy puts our lunch on the floor by her feet. I cuddle up close to her. The gentle rumble of the bus lulls me to sleep.

I’m ten.

I’m big enough to help my Mommy pick grapes.

I am the grape picker’s daughter.

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Rose Cordero-Gonzales is an author, artist, and teacher. She appreciates you taking the time to visit. If her work touches you, she invites you to consider clapping by holding the hand icon down. She wishes you the best on your creative journey and thanks you for your support. She is the author of Rosie’s Christmas Wish on Amazon. (Her posts may contain affiliate links!)