A Small Story
I sit up on the edge of my cot.
I slip my feet into my worn out flip flops.
I stretch my hands to the ceiling of the bus.
My knees and back creak and crack.
“Ah, little salt,” my abuelo chuckles, “Pickin’ peaches and tomatoes from sun up til sun down is tough even on a ten-year-old body.
Wait til you become an old man like me. I move more like a creek than like a river. I meander more than I flow.”
I flow like a river down the steps of our bus.
I smile a sunrise smile at my abuelo.
Mamà hands me a battered tea pot.
It’s filled with cool water.
I pour the water over my head and onto my face.
Even though it's summer, a chill goes down my spine and I shiver as I run my fingers through my hair and rub the sleep out of my eyes.
Mamà kisses me on my cheek.
She hands me a plate with a warm tortilla, egg and beans.
Campesinos pass by our bus on the way to the orchards and the fields.
They raise their fists as they go by.
“¡Hola Gustavo!
¡Hola Gabby!
¡Hola little salt!
¡Hope you had a peaceful night!
¡Hope you have a good day!”
We raise our fists to the sky.
I whistle my ‘milk pinging against the sides of the tin pail’ tune to let them know all is well.
Their greetings float softly away toward the peach trees and the tomatoes.
"We are made from the dust," I think to myself as the bottoms of their bare feet clap the dirt on the dusty path.
I love the campesinos
They take time to smile and greet everyone.
They help people feel more important than the work that needs to be done for the day.
"Migrant God, walk with us," I pray in my heart.
I hear a soft hum as my abuelo prepares his sack for the trees and the plants.
It’s an answer to my heart prayer.
- trevor scott barton, stories for brown eyed girls, 2021
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