Three months ago, I got a letter.
A real one. Not a bill, not junk. Handwritten. Addressed to “Mr. Pedro Alvarez” in ink that trembled like the person had paused more than once while writing.
Inside was a card with a photo of a salad on the front. I’m not kidding—a salad. Kale, avocado, those weird little sprout things. Real fancy. It made me chuckle.
But inside, it said this:
“You don’t know me, but I met you at the farmers’ market. You told me you worked the fields. That stayed with me. I’ve started volunteering at a migrant aid center. I’m learning. Thank you for everything you did, even when no one saw. You made a difference. I hope you know that.”
— Jenna
I sat with that letter for a long time. Didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or fold it into my Bible.
In the end, I pinned it to the wall, right next to the photo of my parents. Just to remind myself that some things—some words—still have weight.
The shop where I patch tires? It’s nothing fancy. Smells like old oil and cheap coffee. But last week, the owner said he might sell. Said he’s tired, that maybe I could take over. Asked if I’d be interested.
Me.
A man with no diploma. No papers. Just two good hands left and a back full of knots.
I said yes.
I don’t know how I’ll do it. Maybe I’ll get a loan. Maybe I won’t. But I’ve spent my life fixing broken things. Might as well try with this too.
Sometimes, Rosa calls. She lives with her daughter now. Has a small garden out back where she grows herbs and tomatoes. She says they taste better than anything from the store. I believe her.
Julio? His son just got into college. Full ride. Wants to study law. Says he’ll fight for workers like his father.
And me? I bought a head of lettuce last Sunday.
Just one.
Took it home, washed it slow. No dressing, no extras—just oil and a pinch of salt.
I sat at my little table, said grace out loud for the first time in years, and took a bite.
It was bitter. Then sweet.
Tasted like sweat, sun, and dirt.
Tasted like something earned.
People talk about the American Dream like it’s some golden highway, smooth and fast and full of signs telling you which exit to take.
But for folks like me, it’s a dirt road.
Bumpy. Full of holes. No lights. No guarantees.
You walk it barefoot. You bleed on it.
But you keep walking.
Because somewhere along the way, you realize—
You are the dream.
You planted it.
You watered it.
And even if no one thanks you…
It grew.
Final line (to linger):
The hands that fed this country may be rough, but they planted more than food — they planted hope, one harvest at a time.
