little salt

I hear my abuelo talking to a cow.

I look out the window.

From the side, his face is the shape of the curve in a crescent moon.

His body is a sinewy thin as the branches on the farthest reaches of the giant angel oak tree in the center of John’s Island.

His eyes are kind and tired, glowing softly like the light at Sunrise.

Every morning, he talks the cow into giving a bucket full of milk.

Sometimes he speaks gently to the cow.

Sometimes he speaks harshly.

It depends on what kind of mood the cow is in.

I suppose it depends on what kind of mood he is in, too.

Today, he is speaking harshly.

“Where were you last night? Since you didn’t come home, I’m not going to let you see your calf this morning.”

Usually, he leads the cow into a small area enclosed by a bamboo fence.

Then he allows the calf to come and nuzzle with it’s mother while she gives milk.

True to his word, he leads the cow in and then locks the calf inside a stall in the old barn beside our bus.

I grin as he yells, “Next time you’ll come home!” over the bellowing of the cow and the whining of the calf.

It reminds me of how close my abuelo is to animals and to the land.

The yelling, bellowing, and whining fade into the ping of milk hitting the sides of the metal bucket.

That is a comforting sound.

I whistle that song as I rise from my cot, step off of the bus and splash my face with cold water mamí has prepared for me. 

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