His mamí, on the way to the garden to pick fruits and vegetables from the plants and and trees of the land, would find him beneath the apple tree beside the fence of the garden, writing.
His bony shoulders hunched over his notebook as if he were a human question mark.
His long fingers gripped around his pencil as if he were a human exclamation point.
Writing the things he saw and heard and smelled and tasted and touched.
Writing the things he thought and felt.
His papí, on the way back from the fields, would find him on top of the giant rock in their yard, writing, his eyes to the sky as if he were seeing something others barely missed seeing, his ears to the ground as if he were hearing something others barely missed hearing.
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