“To understand just one life, you have to swallow the world.” - Salmon Rushdie
She held his hand.
“For someone so small and frail,
he has big, strong hands,” she thought as her fingers intertwined his fingers.
When you're a migrant kid, and you spend your life
picking tomatoes and peaches in the hot sun of humid days, your hands grow like the fruits and vegetables of summer, but the rest of your body withers away like the vines of winter.
He squeezed her hand.
She felt the beating of his heart in her hand, and she felt it deeply inside of her.
She turned and looked into his sky blue eyes.
“I understand,” she whispered.
He felt tenderness deeply inside of him
as he looked into her earthy brown eyes.
When you're a native kid in the Arctic, and you spend your life building and mending under the small sun of frozen days, your heart grows beautiful and mysterious, like the great bowhead whales under the ice, but the rest of you bends against the harsh, bitter ocean winds.
They both turned again and looked out over the Chukchi Sea at the rising sun.
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