fragments from trevor’s notebook

Maria is 7 years old.

She is in second grade at my elementary school in West Greenville. 

Her parents fled the effects of a brutal civil war in El Salvador and found a new life on the farms and in the fields of South Carolina. 

She is like those farms and fields.

She has dark skin the color of the ground.

She has a garden of a heart that produces love and joy as if they were tomatoes and beans. 

I’ve seen her hold the hand of a frightened kindergartner in the lunch line in the cafeteria during early morning breakfast time.

I’ve seen her offer her shoulder to a crying friend who scraped her knee on the blacktop during recess. 

I’ve seen her.

I’ve heard her steps on the long hall from the office because on special days she wears tiny high heeled shoes with her flowery dresses.

I’ve heard the click, click, click of those shoes as she made her way toward me over the tiled floor. 

This always makes me stop and smile.

One afternoon, I realized I forgot to send my money through the mail to the water company to pay my bill. 

I stopped by the office to make my payment in person after school. 

Apparently three-fourths of the residents of Greenville County forgot to send in their payments, too, because the place was full of people, people standing in the doorway, people meandering to the payment counter, people everywhere.

In the middle of all of that humanity, I heard a click, click, click. 

I looked behind me, around me, in front of me and there, beside a desk, was Maria! 

She was pushing a stroller with a tiny baby inside of it. 

I could barely see her over the handles of the stroller. 

She was leading her mother, who was holding a toddler in her arms.

She saw me. 

Her face lit up with a Maria smile. 

She let go of the stroller just for a moment, wrapped her arms around me, and said, "Oh, Mr. Barton! Buenos tardes! I’m always so glad to see you!"

She took hold of the stroller again.

I lost sight of her among the faces of the people around me. 

But I heard her voice, her sincere, serious voice, rise above the noise. 

"Excuse me," she said, "But could you help us pay our bill?"

There was Maria, 7 years old, translating for her mother, helping her family, sharing her life with our world.

Do you see her?

Do you hear her?

I hope so.

With all of mi corazón.