10 years old
Lupe lifted up her long blue skirt a little so she could wade across the water. She lifted to her shins, she waded, lifted to her knees, she waded, lifted to her thighs, and she waded until she did the same in reverse.
She trespassed into the strawberry field. They were red, ripe, and ready to eat. She grabbed one and took a bite. The sweet juices flowed into her mouth like nature’s candy. She couldn’t get this luxury at home so this had to be the way.
“Who’s there?” growled a scruffy voice. A large man appeared
Lupe, caught of guard, froze. That was the last time she ever trespassed and tasted nature’s heaven.
55 years later
Lupe stood by the dry river bed where there used to be a strawberry farm across the water. She crossed it to look at the rows of tombstones and graves that now replaced the rows of strawberry forbs that used to line the field. She stopped at the first grave she came across. It read “Jose Morellos.” The man who had once beat her with a guava tree stick for eating his strawberries. Lupe touched the scars under her blue dress on her right hip and spit on the grave. “It’s Lupe again.”