little salt

I open my eyes.

Where is the light?

There’s no light around me.

Only darkness.

Utter darkness.

“Hmm,” I think, “Clouds must have blown in off the ocean and covered the moon and the stars.”

I hold my hand in front of my face.

I can’t see a thing.

I wiggle my fingers.

I can’t see them.

Am I blind?

I’m scared.

I’m afraid of the dark.

When I wake up in the dark and am afraid, my abuelo taught me to do a helpful thing.

“Do not be afraid, little salt,” he said, “If you wake up scared scared of the dark.”

“Keep your eyes open and whisper, 'I am salt. I am light. I am made from the dirt' three times.”

“When you finish whispering these words, everything will be well.”

“I promise."

I am salt. I am light. I am made from the dirt.

I am salt. I am light. I am made from the dirt.

I am salt. I am light. I am made from the dirt.

My abuelo is right.

I can see again.

Here is my hand.

Here are my wiggling fingers.

Here I am.

Look.

See my window.

It’s open to the morning breeze blowing from the great waters across the fields over my body around my face.

Sunlight sparkles off a drop of dew on the flower of a magnolia leaf on the tree beside our old, hollowed out school bus.

Oh, the beauty of it all.

There is so much beauty in small things.

A curtain mamí sewed for my window blows toward me and goes back to its place again. 

Good morning, window.

Good morning world.

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