The Children

We laid them down gently, in ditches and furrows and wicker baskets beneath the trees. We left them lying naked, atop blankets, on woven straw mats at the edges of the fields. We placed them in wooden apple boxes and nursed them every time we finished hoeing a row of beans. When they were older, and more rambunctious, we sometimes tied them to chairs. We strapped them on to our backs in the dead of winter in Redding and went out to prune the grapevines, but some mornings it was so cold that their ears froze and bled. In early summer, in Stockton, we left them in nearby gullies while we dug up onions and began picking the first plums. We gave them sticks to play with in our absence and called out to them from time to time to let them know we were still there. Don’t bother the dogs. Don’t touch the bees. Don’t wander away or Papa will get mad. When they tired and began to cry out for us we kept on working because if we didn’t we knew we would never pay off the debt on our lease. Mama can’t come. After a while their voices grew fainter and their crying came to a stop. And at the end of the day when there was no more light in the sky, we woke them up from wherever it was they lay sleeping and brushed the dirt from their hair. It’s time to go home.