Rose

Rose. Wife, mother, school cook, farmer, woman, in no particular order. Though in this culture it might tend to fall into just that. There is something about her that is familiar, like I have known her before. It’s almost as if I remember her. Her hands are plump and warm. Always giving and embracing. I see her at school and she claps, opening her arms wide “Yes Quinn! My sister” she will say patting my cheek. Joy spreads across her face and into her being. I visit her home; it is smaller than my bedroom. Walled in by dried mud and dung, and filled with a few small possessions. Her pride swells as she gives me the tour. “My bed is here,” she points, “and there is the fire,” I can almost reach it from the bed. “You are very welcome here.” She feeds me, and doesn’t let me leave empty handed. There is always great delight here in welcoming, in sharing all that one has. The last bit of water, the family’s food for the week, years of caring for another’s child. The struggle is shared; the women daily giving all they have, bear the weight together. The idea of America’s “no trespassing” sign pops into my head and I laugh, not in a condemning way, but oh how our differences are vast; our ideas of entitlement and what we are willing to openly give. I feel flushed with embracement over my actions this woman has never seen.  I look around this place and take it in. I watch as she starts a fire over rocks on the ground, sprinkling tealeaves into the pot. This is her home where she raises these happy children, where she cultivates her joy, and sews her harvest. A few days later, I see her at the market; she is examining a head of cabbage as she laughs with the women around her, eyes lit up. She notices me across the way, with my all white skin I hardly blend in, she skips over ushering me, welcoming me to her friends. I am comfortable and happy with her arm in mine. She makes me want to be a better human.