My 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 to the night.
The nun had worked in the inner-city for many years and had seen many things, but had never seen the beauty and suffering she saw our faces at the church door that night.
Our eyes were alight with beauty - the beauty of being.
Our bodies were heavy with suffering.
We were covered with the dirt and sweat and blood of thousands upon thousands of miles of migration along the migratory road.
Our shoulders sagged under the weight of months of homelessness.
The only homes we found during our journey were the simple kindnesses that people showed us along the way.
We were very still and very quiet.
The old nun wrapped her arms around us.
“Estoy aquí,” she whispered.
“I’m here.”
- trevor scott barton, migratory road, 2021
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