She Was 5

It was a typical Salvadoran afternoon.

Hot, humid, sweat rolling down your face.

No movement required.

We sat on a wooden bench.

Right outside the house.

My great-grandma and I.

Her favorite newspaper in front of her.

While I watched cars go by.

She would sound out the syllables.

And read slowly through the articles.

She was in her early 70s.

Learning to read and write.

In her late 60s, she had built the house.

A small place that had room for everyone.

Here she raised grandchildren, great-

grandchildren, great-great-grandchildren

and whatever kids neighbors brought by.

The door was always open.

And there was always a plate of hot food

with your name on it.

She kept reading.

I looked up at her and wondered.

How she survived her childhood.

How she kept her sanity.

Her mother had given her away when she was 5.

To a family of farmers to care for their cows.

Being a socialite had its drawbacks.

How long could you hide a fatherless child?

Her days would start at 4 am.

Herd the cows out to pasture.

Light a cigar to burn out the cattle grubs.

Herd the cows inside so the owner could milk them.

Clean their stalls meanwhile.

Rush back when the owner yelled done.

At night she settled down on fresh hay in an

empty stall.

And waited for her daily meal to come.

Many nights the family would forget.

So she would begin to sing loudly enough

for them to hear.

My great-grandma would always cry when

she told this next part.

The oldest son would laugh and yell.

Ma, the cat is crying!

The woman would then storm into the barn, 

yelling and cussing.

The audacity of a giveaway disrupting her dinner 

because she was hungry.

And then throw a piece of brown sugar

candy and a tortilla on the ground.

My great-grandma would suck on the candy

to make it last and throw the tortilla to the

pigs.

She was 5.