“Remember, Little Salt, I’m a farmer, not a barber.
My eyes are farmer’s eyes.
Brown like a field that’s been turned by donkey and plow.
Heavy lidded from years and years of looking for one more peach in a tree or one more tomato on a vine.
Kind because I’m a migrant worker and I’ve learned to look into the faces of people and see all that’s human in them.”
He looked at himself in a small, cracked mirror in his big, calloused hands, then turned the mirror toward Little Salt.
“Look, mi nieto.
I cut your hair in a crooked line across your forehead.
I left uneven gaps above your tiny ears.
Your own brown eyes sparkle like the light of stars off a river in the countryside in the middle of an El Salvadoran night.
Yep, mi nieto.
I’m definitely not a barber.
I’m a farmer.
And you are my guiding star.
No comments:
Post a Comment