Elias and Gabby

“Sure thing,” said Elias.

Have a seat.”

“Gracias,” said Gabby.

“Go ahead. 

Estoy escuchando.

I’m listening.”

“Good, because it’s a story about a boy who needs you to be a careful listener.”

“My abuelo used to say, ‘Gabby, listening to people’s lives is an art, and you are the Frida Kahlo of listening.”

“Hmmm,” he smiled.

“I’ll try to be the Diego Rivera of storytelling, then.”

This made her smile, too.

“Well, they’re name is the Flores family. 

There’s an old man, Gustavo. 

He’s sinewy thin, and his arms and legs look like the far branches on a tall, old tree. 

He has a head full of gray hair, and that makes him look wise in the ways of the old ones in Latin America. 

He has wrinkles on his face that look like ruts in a dirt road. 

He has a rich voice, a storyteller’s voice, and he’s a good storyteller. 

Most of all he has kind eyes that are full of life, even though he’s seen a lot of hard times.

There’s Gabriela, called Gabby, like you.

She’s Gustavo’s daughter. 

Her arms and legs look like the branches of a tree, too, only they’re like the ones closer to the trunk, thick and strong and able to carry heavy things. 

She has a head full of black hair that looks like a night sky on a moonless, starless night. 

Her brown eyes carry that moon and those stars, though. 

You can see a soft light when you look into them. 

She has wrinkles around those eyes, but they aren’t the wrinkles of age and time. 

They’re the wrinkles of worry and weariness that shouldn’t be on the face of someone so young.

She has a soft, quiet voice.

She doesn’t talk much but when she does she says important things. 

You should see her hands and her feet. 

They’re calloused and worn, yet gentle and warm against the life she’s lived so far.

And there’s Salito, Gabby’s son, Gustavo’s grandson. 

Everyone calls him Little Salt.

He’s small in size, even for a ten-year-old, but he has a big heart. 

He has tiny ears, but he’s a good listener, too.

He looks at the person who’s speaking as if he’s drinking their words on a hot, humid day.

He’s very smart, even though he goes from school to school on the migratory trail and misses ‘lots of days during the school year. 

There’s one part of him that worries me. 

He doesn’t talk. 

I don’t think it’s because he can’t talk. 

I think it’s because he doesn’t want to talk.

I’m not sure, though.

I am sure from the stories his abuelo tells that he’s lived some hard times and seen some hard things on the road. 

There’s a doctor, Dr. Maria, the best doctor I’ve ever known, who’s working to help him.

I’d like to find a way to help him myself, help him say what’s inside of him, if I can. 

That’s one of the reasons why I’m here.