magical realism

As my window was waving to me, a gentle breeze blew over my feet and onto my face.

It dried away my tears.

“Look at that,” I thought. “The breeze blew across the whole, wide world into my small, simple room to say hello and comfort me.”

I smiled and waved good morning to the breeze, and sat with it for a while.

My name is Salito, which means ‘little salt’ in Spanish.

My abuelo gave this name to me.

“Mi nieto,” he said when I was little, “You are life to us and our link to the sea.”

He always says things like that to me.

Most of the time, I don’t what he means, but the sparkle in his eyes and the smile on his face as he says it makes my heart happy.

Like salt, I’m not much to look at.

My nose is like a pickle, big and knotty, the kind of pickle you buy out of a gallon glass jar at the corner store.

My ears are the same size and shape as summer squash, the kind of yellow squash my mamí  grows in the little garden by our bus, big at the top and small at the bottom.

My hair goes across my forehead in a crooked line.

But I am friendly.

“A little salt goes a long way to bring flavor to the world,” says my abuelo. “And your friendship goes a long way to bring flavor to people’s lives.”

‘Esse quam videri,’ goes the old saying.

‘The essence is more important than the appearance.’

‘What’s inside is more important than what’s outside.’

Yep, that’s me.

Salito.

Little salt.

Sometimes, in the middle of a long day in the fields and orchards, I close my eyes and imagine I am a tree.

If I were a tree, I’d like to be an apple tree.

I’d share my fruit with everybody.

I told this to my abuelo.

One morning, there was a sheet of notebook paper on my pillow.

Smudges from my abuelo’s hand was upon it.

He had written a poem for me.

If I were a tree,

     I would like to be

          an apple tree

Leaves a peaceful green,

     birds could perch and sing,

          children laugh and swing

               upon my branches

Fruit a joyful red,

     the sun could rest it’s head,

          the hungry could be fed

               upon my apples

Bark an earthy brown,

     roots deep in the ground,

          the weary could sit down

               beside my body

My friend the gentle breeze,

     rustling through my leaves,

          could refresh all those in need

               of tender shade

I’d stand strong and tall,

     give myself to all,

          ‘til all my fruit was gone,

               a giving tree

Though I would be bare,

     I would still be there,

          reminding all I care,

               an apple tree

Spring would come and then

     I would bloom again,

          and be for you my friend,

               your apple tree

 

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