migrant child

I’m a migrant worker, the son of an El Salvadoran farmer, a poor child of the rich soil of the earth. 

Most mornings, just before sunrise, I stand sleepily outside our broken down school bus turned migrant housing, and see the world brighten around me to yellow, the color of a peach in an orchard before it ripens under the South Carolina sun. 

In the evening, just before sunset, I wonder wearily outside that same bus and watch the red sun the color of a Better Boy Tomato ripe on a Johns Island vine hang on the horizon.

The days are good, though, because I have my mamí and my abuelo beside me.

We pick fruit and vegetables, day in and day out, from sunrise to sunset, for the world to 

eat.