Legacy

During my whole my life I was taught to take care of the plantation. Not only to care, but to protect. Protect it with my own life, as my grandfather always said. Those few acres of grass, vegetables, disturbed soil and stones were my school, my house and my life. We spent so much time there that, for me, my grandfather started to have a radish face and a beard made of wheat. Aside the few meters of land that every day he used to brought home within the nails. Five generations of men and women had planted and harvested there. The owner had given us this gift and didn’t hide their preference for the results of our labor. He used to come personally to our farm to collect his big part of our production. He praised my grandfather and his legacy. Yes, I could see that legacy in our hands, hands that now were yellow and dirt from the juice, and calloused from the craft. I could see the day that my beard would turn into pods of cereal and my fingers would become carrots, like my grandfather’s. I would know how to differentiate the good from the bad pumpkin only by touching it and from the sound of the pulp echoing in there. My grandfather would be proud of me.
One day I woke up early and my grandfather didn’t. I didn’t hesitate even for a single moment. I went out into the harvest.

I burned everything.