The old abuelo lifted the iron knocker on the oak church door and let it fall back onto it’s tarnished iron plate.
He did this again and again until a nun cracked open the door.
The nun had worked in the inner-city for many years and had seen many things, but never had she seen the beauty and suffering she saw in the faces and bodies of Maria, Gustavo and Salito at the church door that night.
Their eyes were alight with beauty, the beauty of being.
Their bodies were heavy with suffering.
They were covered with the dirt and sweat and blood of thousands upon thousands of miles of migration along the migratory road.
Their shoulders sagged under the weight of months and months of homelessness.
The only homes they had found during their journey were the small spaces and simple kindnesses that people had shown them along the way.
They were still and very quiet.
They didn’t make a sound.
The old nun wrapped her arms around them.
“I’m here,” she whispered.
“Estoy aquí.”
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