little salt

I sit on the edge of my cot and slip my feet into my flip flops.

I stand and stretch my hands to the ceiling of the bus.

"Picking peaches and tomatoes from sun up to sun down is tough even on a ten-year-old's knees, back and shoulders," says my abuelo.

"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 cold 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 my cheek and hands me a warm tortilla with eggs and beans.

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

Each person waves as they go by.

"Hey, Gustavo! Hey Maria! Hey Little Salt! Hope you had a peaceful night."

We wave back.

I whistle to let them know all is well.

"See you at work!" they say.

Their greetings float softly toward the peaches and tomatoes.

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

I love this about my compesino brothers and sisters, the time they take to smile and greet each other, the ways they help each other feel more important than the work that needs to be done for the day.

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

This is my hope and prayer at the beginning of each day.

"Migrant child, I walk with you," I think I hear in response, but it it only the soft hum of my abuelo as he prepares his picking sack for trees and plants.

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