We went to my maternal grandfather’s farm to help with the sweet potato planting. Every year, he planted a small field of sweet potatoes, saying he wanted to share the fruits of his own hands with his children. He was a man who had never once asked his children for help, but this year, after undergoing back surgery, he called to ask for it.
My mother placed the seedlings into the soil, and I followed behind her, watering each one. It sounded like a simple task, but it turned out to be far more grueling than I had expected. Bent over in an awkward position, trying to direct water into the small holes of plastic mulch, I felt my back and arms aching to the point of breaking. The confidence I had brought to the task quickly gave way to a single thought: When will this be over? And yet, this is what my grandfather had done alone, year after year.
As the weight of the labor settled into my body, I began to feel the deeper weight of responsibility that comes with feeding a family. It made me think of my dad—quietly enduring hardship in a faraway place to support us. Surely, the burden he carries is no lighter. I’ll carry my gratitude forward—with a heart that remembers and a voice that says, even if only simply: thank you, Dad.