She held his hand. “For someone so small and frail,
he has big, strong hands,” she thought as her fingers intertwined his fingers.
When you're a migrant kid, and you spend your life
picking grapefruit, peaches and tomatoes in the hot sun of humid days, your hands grow like the fruits and vegetables of summer, but the rest of your body withers away like the vines of fall.
He squeezed her hand, and she could feel the beating of his heart in her hand, and she felt it deeply inside of her, and she turned and looked
into his eyes.
“I understand,” she whispered, and he could feel
tenderness deeply inside of him, as he looked
into her brown eyes.
When you're a native kid in the Arctic, and you spend your life building and mending under the small sun of frozen days, your heart grows beautiful and mysterious, like the great bowhead whales under the ice, but the rest of you bends
against the harsh, bitter winds of the ocean.
They both turned again and looked out over the water at the setting sun. Tears welled up in the corners of their eyes and dropped down their cold cheeks into the icy Chukchi Sea.
And for the first time in their lives and journeys, they knew human kindness, they felt the warmth of love.
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