Ode to my Grandma

For Grandma.

She did not retire, nor would she ever be able to.  She spent the twilight of her life the same way she spent the rest; working hard.  She worked in the fields picking cotton as a girl.  As a woman, she was a band promoter, a seller of jewelry, and even a line worker at GM.  As a boy I watched her organize the Mexicans of our city to elect a man she thought would bring us help.  There was nothing she couldn’t do.

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Gas Station Man

I saw a man crying today.

I was pumping gas into an empty van.  And though absent of fuel, it was full of life.  My sweet girl sat up front and my two bambinos sat on booster seats in the back.  The boy had rolled down the window the big sliding door.  We were being goofy together, exchanging our funniest faces.  But past his face, and past my daughter, through the other window, I saw a man.

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Tree Farm Girl

It’s a good title.  Sadly, I cannot claim to have created it. 

I have just published my first book, the aforementioned Tree Farm Girl.  I am already overwhelmed with the response.  When thinking about writing a story about our love story, a title evaded me.  And a title matters.  It is that first point of contact. 

And then I remembered the sun-chicken. 

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