And the land was still there. The same land they tried to steal, the same land Carmen refused to leave, the same land where they locked her up, the same land where her son found her, the same land where the three of them now lived together with the door open and a cinnamon-colored dog finally sleeping peacefully. Rodrigo looked at his mother’s house, the open windows, the smoke rising from the kitchen, the smell of tortillas, and he thought his mother was right. She had always been right.
Land isn’t valued for its price; it’s valued for what one endures to keep it. They say a person’s kindness is measured by what they give without expecting anything in return, but I believe it’s measured by something else. It’s measured by what they endure before losing faith in people. Doña Carmen endured eight months in darkness, locked up by the very people she had raised with her own hands. And when she emerged, she didn’t emerge filled with hatred.
He went out to water his vegetable garden, make his tortillas, and show a little girl that the world still has good things in it. If that isn’t strength, I don’t know what is. What would you have done in Rodrigo’s place? Would you have forgiven him, or would you have done the same? Let me know in the comments.
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