When he was two years old, his mamí talked with him in the language of poetry as she walked with him tied to her back down the long rows of tomatoes and peaches under the South Carolina sun.
She reached down to the plants, took a tomato in her hands, and rubbed the rubbery skin against one soft cheek.
She reached up to the trees, took a peach in her hands, and rubbed the fuzzy skin against the other soft cheek.
She whispered,
Amo el trozo de tierra que tú eres.
I love the handful of earth you are.
She waited for him to talk back to her in toddling talk, to say words like “mamí” and “amo” and “tú”.
But he didn't.
He didn't say anything at all.
He only looked at her with wide, unblinking, brown eyes, eyes the color of the deep parts of the earth.
He jutted out his little, bottom lip as if to say, "I’m sorry, mamí, but I can’t find the words.”
People ask him, "What's your name?" or "How old are you?" or "How are you?" and he answers them with whistles instead of with words.
People ask his abuelo, "What's wrong with him?"
The old man simply shrugs and sighs the sigh of someone who carries heavy loads on his back and in his heart.
"Dios sabe,”’he answers. “God knows."
Well, I know, too.
I am St. Brendan the Navigator, patron saint of whales and ten-year-old’s searching for their voices.
Here is his story.
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