i am salt

I open my eyes.

No light is in my room.

Only darkness.

Complete and utter darkness.

I put my hand in front of my face.

I can’t see it.

I wiggle my fingers.

I can’t see them.

I can’t see a thing.

“Have I gone blind?” I ask myself, for I am alone in the hollowed out school bus that houses us on this Johns Island farm.

Mamí and my abuelo left well before dawn to pick tomatoes in the fields.

I’m afraid.

I’m scared of the dark.

When I was a toddler, my abuelo taught me what to to do when I’m afraid.

"Little salt,” he said, "if you’re ever alone and afraid, say three times, 'I am salt. I am light. I am made from the dirt.’

When you’re finished saying these words, everything will be okay. 

I promise."

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

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

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

My abuelo was right, as he usually is.

He made good on his promise, as he always does.

I can see again.

Here is my hand.

Here are my wiggling fingers.

Here I am.