In those days travelling along

roads of dust and sun

tented wagons used to go,

the yoked oxen

ambling down the hollows,

the girl sat, her feet dangling,

looking out, the dog behind,

on either side piñuela fields along the road.

The women inside,

the pans, the knots of bundled clothes.

The drunken men laughing.

And the mama grande,

scarf on head,

silently smoking, patrona and matrona

of all around her,

living or not,

in charge of everything,

thinking of everything,

sat on the bench

inside the wagon,

with tiny little eyes

that see everything,

with her big soft hands

gesturing commands.

In the middle of the journey

she would decide to stop

to light a fire and heat up food.

They make coffee.

The dog jumps, happy.

The girl laughs.

They’d get the mama grande down,

bench and all,

and find her shade.

The women start work,

the men on haunches light cigars.

The mama grande,

cigar in hand,

her eyes half-shut,

watching everything.