Her children toil in the fields, as do their children. Those who follow will turn the same soil, bend their backs to the same rows.
The grandmother, past the harvest of her youth, waits in the autumn of her years.
When the fields have offered up their bounty and the young ones bring their treasure, the grandmother will sort and sift and make ready for the family.
Frail old hands, withered and weakened, will find strength in the love that flows from the land.
But for now, a time to sit in the sun, to rest, to cherish yesterday, and look upon tomorrow.
She sits with her old friend, time, and waits for the harvest.
--William M. Finklea
Copyright
Story created and written from sculptor's concept.