Little Salt

My name is Salito.

That means “Little Salt” in Spanish.

My abuelo gave me this name.

“Mi nieto,” he said when I was little, “I’ll call you Little Salt because you are our life and our link to the sea.”

He always says things like that to me.

Most of the time, I’m not sure what he means, but the sparkle in his eyes and the smile on his face as he speaks 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 jar at the corner store.

My ears are like 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.

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

‘Esse quam videri,’ goes the old Latin 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 a peach tree.

I’d share my fruit with everyone.

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 this poem for me.

If I were a tree,

     I would like to be

          a peach 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 peaches

Bark an earthy brown,

     roots deep in the ground,

          the weary could sit down

               beside my trunk

My friend the gentle breeze,

     rustling through my leaves,

          refreshing all 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,

               a peachless tree

Spring would come and then

     I would bloom again,

          and be for you my friend,

               your peach tree