There was a tap on the door.
A young doctor walked into the room.
“Buenos Dias,” she said. “My name is Maria.”
Her eyes were like his abuelo’s eyes, deep and earthy brown.
She wore a white doctor’s coat, faded blue jeans and an old pair of black Chuck Taylor tennis shoes.
“Well,” she began, “Let’s talk about Little Salt, okay?.
I looked at his brain scans and studied them very carefully.
I didn’t find any organic reason why he doesn’t speak.
The tests on his ears, nose and throat were normal, too.
All of the parts that help him speak are well and good inside of him.”
His mamí put her arm around his shoulder, held him to her chest, and breathed out a slow, quiet sigh of relief.
“But we still haven’t answered an important question,” continued Dr. Maria. “Why doesn’t Little Salt speak?”
She pulled up a chair in front of him, sat down in it, and leaned close to him until her nose gently brushed his nose.
“We’ve got to walk together down a path into a place where we can’t see and hear,” she smiled.
“The only person who can tell us why he’s not speaking...is not speaking.”
He smiled at her and looked down at her shoes.
Suddenly, he whistled the most beautiful song shehad ever heard in her life.
It reminded her of the joy she felt as a little girl standing in the garden with her abuelo on their family farm in El Salvador.
It reminded her of the sadness she felt as she listened to the stories and nurtured the health of migrants who wanted to build a better life in places where people wanted to tear their lives apart.
Joy and sadness, both at the same time, deep inside of her heart.
His whistling brought a stillness and a quietness to the room.
After a while, his abuelo spoke.
“He says he does speak, but not many people listen to him.”
And it was true.
#storiesforimmigrants #iamamanger
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