He climbed the steps of the dilapidated bus and pushed the metal frame around the cracked glass panes of the folding door.
Have you ever thought a bus is shaped like a whale?
Hilcias did.
As he stood inside the bus at night, he thought about being inside the belly of a whale.
Darkness with a hint of light.
Shapes and shadows of knapsacks holding all of their belongings in the world.
Quiet with a hint of spouting water and deep breaths from ship sized lungs.
Echoes of the world.
Small pieces of quiet sounds.
The end of the day of life and work of migrant workers on the Johns Island farm.
Stillness.
He felt the words rise up inside of him that his abuelo taught him to say when it was getting dark and he was a title bit afraid.
“I am salt.
I am light.
I am made from the dust.
He sat down on the ground in the belly of his whale.
A feeling came down over him like the old blanket his abuela had made for him years and miles ago
Gently.
Tenderly.
“Why am I here?” he thought.
He heard a still, small voice the belly of the whale.
"To be, Hilcias.
To be Hilcias.”
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