Dust

I sit up on the edge of an old army cot.

I pull the string that turns on the single light bulb that hangs just above my head.

I slip my feet into holey flip flops.

I stretch my hands to the ceiling of our delapidated bus.

My knees and back creak and crack.

My abuelo hears me.

"Ah, little salt,” he chuckles, “Picking peaches and tomatoes from sun up til sun down is tough even on a ten-year-old body like yours.

Wait til you get to be an old man like me. I move more like a creek than a river. I meander more than I flow.”

I flow like a river down the steps of the bus.

I smile a sonrisa, a sunrise smile, at my abuelo and mamí.

Mamí 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.

Mamí 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 work in 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 on the breeze toward the peach trees and tomato vines.

"We are made from the dust," I think to myself as the bottoms of their bare feet clap the dirt on the dusty path.

They help me 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 the soft hum of my abuelo as he prepares his sack for the peaches and tomatoes of the day.

- Trevor Scott Barton, Left Foot Stories, 2022