little salt

I open my eyes.

Where is the light?

There is no light in my room.

Only darkness.

Complete darkness.

I put my hand in front of my face, but I can’t see a thing.

I wiggle my fingers, but can’t see them.

Have I become blind?

I’m scared.

I’m afraid of the dark.

When I was a little boy, my abuelo taught me to do something very important when I’m afraid.

"Little salt,” he whispered, "if you wake and it's dark, don't be afraid. 

Keep your eyes wide open and say, 'I am salt. I am light. I am made from the ground' three times. 

When you finish saying these words, everything will be okay. 

I promise."

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

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

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

My abuelo was right.

I can see again.

Here is my hand.

Here are my wiggling fingers.

Here I am.

Wow, look at my window.

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

Sunlight sparkles off of a raindrop on a flower of a magnolia leaf on the tree beside our hollowed out school bus.

A tear drop rolls out of my eye, down my cheek, and onto my pillow.

Ah, there is so much beauty in the smallest of things.

The curtain mamí sewed for me blows inward and goes back to its place again. 

My window is waving good morning to me.

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