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The Farmer
The Old Market of Amman is an explosion of life. While there, my attention was drawn to a vendor. His eyes were sweet and sparkling, his skin wrinkled and damaged by the sun, I guess. His hands had short, dirty nails. He was certainly a farmer, selling his own products. He proudly showed me a bulb of garlic. His pride surprised me. “Why so proud?” I asked myself. “It’s just garlic!” Then I remembered the day my grandfather came home, carrying some watermelon seeds with him. He happily said: “I’ve got the seeds! Now I can plant them on my own, since you like them so much!” And so he did. They eventually grew and were ready to be eaten. Those were not just watermelons. They were the result of the time he spent in giving them water every night, the worry he harbored inside for not doing everything correctly, the pleasure of giving me something he produced with his own hands, the product of his loving wish of making me happy. The Jordanian farmer and I looked at each other. I smiled at him, he smiled at me, and we understood each other.

© Anna Raisa Favale