My grandmother talks to her tomatoes in Spanish, softly, the way you would talk to a baby who is almost asleep.

She has never owned a book about gardens. Her lessons are in her hands: press the soil down, but not too hard, leave the roots room to breathe.

In July the San Antonio sun is a heavy hand on the back of my neck, and I want to go inside. She only pulls her hat lower.

When I complain that the seeds are slow, she laughs and says, Mija, the best things in this garden are the ones that make you wait.

Now it is August. I kneel beside her in the dirt, and without thinking, I tell the tomatoes good morning.