little salt

 I sit up on the edge of my cot.

I slip my feet into my recycled tire flip flops.

I stretch my hands to the ceiling of the bus.

My knees and back creak and crack.

My abuelo hears them.

"Ah, little salt,” he chuckles, “Picking peaches and tomatoes from sun up til sun down is tough even on a ten-year-old’s body.

Wait til you get to be an old man like me. I move more like a stream than like a river. I meander more than I flow.”

I flow like a river down the steps of our bus and smile at my abuelo.

Mamí hands me a battered tea pot.

It’s filled with cool water.

"Me, I move more like a stream than a river," he chuckles. "I meander more than I flow."

Mamí hands an old battered tea pot to me.

I pour the water over my head and onto my face.

Even though it's summer, a chill goes down my spine and I shiver as I run my fingers through my hair and rub the sleep out of my eyes.

Mamí kisses me on my cheek.

She hands me a plate with a warm tortilla, eggs and beans.

Campesinos pass by our bus on the way to work in the orchards and the fields.

They raise their fists as they go by.

“¡Hola Gustavo! 

¡Hola Gabby!

¡Hola little salt!

¡Hope you had a peaceful night!

¡Hope you have a good day!”

We raise our fists to the sky.

I whistle my ‘milk pinging against the sides of the tin pail’ tune to let them know all is well.

Their greetings float softly away toward the peaches and tomatoes.

"We are made of the ground," I think to myself as the bottoms of their bare feet clap the dirt on the dusty path.

I love the campesinos

They take time to smile and greet.

They help people feel more important than the work that needs to be done for the day.

"Migrant God, walk with us," I pray.

"Migrant child, I walk with you," I think I hear as an answer to my prayer.

It is only the soft hum, though, of my abuelo as he prepares his sack for trees and plants.

That is good enough for me.

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