“The family is the Flores family,” he began.
There’s an old abuelo, Gustavo, who is sinewy thin.
His arms and legs look like the farthest branches on an angel oak tree.
His head is full of gray hair that makes him look wise in the ways of old people in Latin America.
His face is full of wrinkles that look like ruts in a dirt road.
He has a storyteller’s voice.
He’s a good storyteller.
Most of all, his eyes are full of hope even though he’s seen a lot of suffering.
There’s a young woman, Maria, whose arms and legs look like the branches on an angel oak tree, too.
But they’re like the branches closer to the trunk, thick and strong.
Her hair is black and looks like the night sky on a moonless night.
There are wrinkles around her eyes, but they aren’t the wrinkles of age and time.
No, they’re the wrinkles of worry and hardship, wrinkles that shouldn’t be on the face of someone so young.
Her voice is soft and quiet, and she doesn’t talk much.
But she has so many important things to say.
You should see her hands and feet.
They’re calloused and worn, gentle and warm against the life she has lived so far.
Her brown eyes carry the stars, and you can see a soft light when you look into them.
And there’s a boy, Salito.
Everyone calls him Little Salt.
He’s Maria’s son, Gustavo’s grandson.
He’s small, even for a ten year old, but he has a big heart.
He has tiny ears, and his glasses often slip off of them, but he’s a great listener.
He looks at the person who is speaking to him and drinks in words as if they are water on a hot, humid day.
He’s very smart, though he has missed a lot of school.
I worry about him.
He doesn’t speak.
I don’t think it’s because he can’t.
I think it’s because he doesn’t want to.
I’m sure from the stories his abuelo tells that he has seen some bad things on the migratory road.
I want to tell this family’s story.
That’s why I’m here.”
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