Advent 2021 Day 16

I climbed the steps of our old, broken down bus and pushed the metal frame of the cracked glass folding door gently.

The bus was shaped like a whale.

“I feel like I’m in the belly of a whale,” I thought

It was dark.

“Pitch black,” as my abuelo called the deep night.

I saw shapes and shadows of our backpacks, all the belongings we had in the world.

It was quiet.

I heard echoes from the world around me, small parts of the quiet sounds of the life and work of migrant workers on the Johns Island farms.

It was peaceful.

I remembered the words of a poem about things to do in the belly of the whale.

Measure the walls. Count the ribs. Notch the long days.

Look up for blue sky through the spout. Make small fires

with the broken hulls of fishing boats. Practice smoke signals.

Call old friends, and listen for echoes of distant voices.

Organize your calendar. Dream of the beach. Look each way

for the dim glow of light. Work on your reports. Review

each of your life’s ten million choices. Endure moments

of self-loathing. Find the evidence of those before you.

Destroy it. Try to be very quiet, and listen for the sound

of gears and moving water. Listen for the sound of your heart.

Be thankful that you are here, swallowed with all hope,

where you can rest and wait. Be nostalgic. Think of all

the things you did and could have done. Remember

treading water in the center of the still night sea, your toes

pointing again and again down, down into the black depths. (by Dan Albergotti of Coastal Carolina University)

I sat down on the ground in the belly of my whale.

A feeling settled down beside me as the dawn settles on the earth.

Gently with light.

I asked myself this question.

Who am I?

"Little Salt," said my abuelo, “You are salt. You are light. You are made from the dust."

That’s who I am.

Salt. Light. Dust.

- trevor scott barton, poems for brown eyed girls, 2021