I pulled off the two-lane California Highway.

Searching for my independence at seventeen.

The sign said:

 

FRUIT CUTTERS WANTED - $1.50 PER CRATE!

 

The Mexican women were no doubt puzzled

by the presence of someone so young –

and white, if I’m being honest,  

whose blisters and cuts would likely be plentiful

by the end of the warm summer day.

 

The elderly woman standing next to me

placed the sliced fruit onto sun-greyed wooden trays

laid out before us with the skill of a card dealer in Vegas.

 

Watching me fumble, she gently but firmly

took the butt of my knife from my hand and showed me,

without words, how to earn a living wage with it

 

She handed the knife back to me,

watching me apply what she had just taught,

while making necessary and merciful corrections.

 

I began again to fill the wooden flat with sliced fruit,

amidst a humanity set deep in her eyes

and a harvest with stories to tell.