little salt

It is morning, an early South Carolina low country morning.

A cool breeze is blowing off the ocean.

Sparkling dew drops are in the grass at my bare feet.

It is the dawn of a new day and a new year in my life.

Today is my birthday. 

I was born ten years ago on a Friday the 13th of May.

“Your birth changed Friday the 13th from an unlucky day to the luckiest day ever, Little Salt,” says my abuelo every year. “You’re a lucky rabbit’s foot for the world.”

This always makes me feel like I have something important to do for the world.

I’m looking at two maple trees in front of me, one to my right and one to my left at the end of the path that leads to the hollowed out school bus where we live.

My abuelo planted them for me for my birthday.

“Little Salt,” he whispered early this morning before dawn, “I planted these two trees for you.

I planted two of them so they will never be alone.

Every year, they will take in sunshine and rain.

They will grow tall and broad and strong.

Every year they will face hurricane winds that might break them apart right there in the ground.

I planted them so they can give tired campesinos a place to sit down and rest when they’re hot and tired from a long day in the peach orchards and the tomato fields.

I planted them so they can give children a place to climb and laugh and swing.

I planted them so they can give birds a place to perch and sing for the people.

I planted them for you.

Mi nieto, look at me.

When you look at them, remember.

You are loved.

Love in return.

That’s the best thing you can give to the world.

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