little salt

I don't say a thing.

I won't say a thing.

I can't say a thing.

Which is it?

I don't know.

Mamí and abuelo, don't know.

Dr. Maria is trying her best to help us know.

Sólo Dios sabe.

But God doesn't say a thing, either.

Or won't.

Or can't.

Somewhere between my heart and mind and mouth, my words lose their form and meaning.

I feel feelings and think thoughts, but they get lost somewhere inside of me before they become spoken words.

Have you ever thought of something you want to say, them immediately forget what it is?

The word is on the tip of your tongue, but you can't say it because it won't come to you, won't come out of you, no matter how much you try.

Well, this is how it is for me all of the time.

So I whistle.

That's what comes out of me.

A whistle.

Music.

A song. 

- trevor scott barton, stories for a brown-eyed girl, 2020