magical realism

I opened my eyes, but there was no light in my room.

Only darkness.

I put my hand in front of my face, but couldn't see a thing.

I wiggled my fingers, but couldn't see them.

Had I gone blind?

I was afraid.

When I was a little, I learned something I always remember when I am scared in the dark.

"Solito,” said my abuelo, "My little salt, if you wake up and it's dark, don't be afraid. Just keep your eyes wide open and whisper, 'I am salt. I am light. I am made from the ground' three times. When you finish your whispering, everything will be alright. 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.

By the time I finished whispering, I could see.

There is my hand.

There ate my wiggling fingers.

Here I am.

Look at my window..

It is open to the morning breeze blowing from the fields across my body.

Sunlight sparkles through it's glass off a drop of rain on the flower of a magnolia tree outside in my yard.

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

Ah, the beauty in the smallest of things.

One of my curtains comes toward me and goes back to it's place again. 

The other curtain comes toward me and goes back to it's place again, too.

My window is waving good morning to me.

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