He who guards the coffee cherries

I am not the one who sleeps next to the concrete pad (patio) where the coffee cherries are drying by day.

I do not sleep there to guard the crop from being stolen.

That is someone else's job. He plays soccer with his co-workers under the lush Guatemalan rainforest canopy.

I am not him.

I get a 5 AM phone call when someone can't work. Am I guarding something from some thief?

I sleep on a mattress between a quilt and a sheet, my head on a striped pillowcase.

What does his bed look like? Is it made of burlap coffee sacks? Is it a hammock?

He cooks his meals at a communal oven/stove, made of bricks, made by anyone who can lay mortar. Tamales, tortillas, cafe.

I gaze into a pair of 8-year-old blue and 9-year-old blues across the talbe, chicken soup in my bowl.

Does he see the stars in the Guatemalan sky? Are the insects in the mountains loud at night? Does he have a rifle handy, for if bandits do arrive?

I go down the driveway to get the paper, sometimes in my slippers and bathrobe.

Does he wake up chilly with morning dew, the mountain fog set in overnight? Where does his family sleep?

He held my hand today, as I cursed at my impatience. I reveled in his wholesomeness and dedication, springing eternal.