Maiz is Life

by Rachel Turney

I watch as she balls the white corn paste in her hands—circling the dough round and round in a movement I could not replicate. She slaps the ball down hard on her wooden press. The little ball hits perfectly in the center, the pupil in the eye. She transfers the now flat tortilla to the hot griddle. Steam rises and the dough bubbles, just a little. She lifts the edge of the tortilla and flicks it into a small basket. This is all done with just her hands. What she can make with her hands is incredible to me. My hands type, my hands pour milk over cereal, my hands hold a coffee cup while her hands make nothing into something.