Chancletas (fragments from Hilcias’ Notebook - #1)

 These are my only chancletas, my only flip-flops, my only shoes to protect my feet from the unforgiving desert road.

Now, they've fallen apart. 

Turned to dust. 

I’d repaired them a hundred times.

But now there’s nothing to repair.

A little bit of wire and a used strip of tape are all I have left of my turned to dust chancletas.

I have eight centavos in my pocket. 

I could use them to buy another pair of chancletas at a roadside market.

But I need them for Hilcias.

A new pair of chancletas can buy two tortillas, a spoonful of beans and a mango.

I care more for Hilcias’ belly than for my feet.

The migrant trail is rocky hard and scorching hot. 

Barefooted, without chancletas, I feel each step.

Each step hurts.

But I have tough feet.

My heart is in my feet.

They're feet that've walked the farms and fields of El Salvador from sun rise to sun set, from dark to dark, since I was a little girl.

They're hard as stones.

They're part of the earth.

My heart is flesh.

It’s part of the sky.

I know my feet weren't made to walk a thousand miles over the migrant trail without chancletas.

I know my heart wasn’t made to feel the thousand miles of the migrant trail without goodness and loving kindness.

I walk step by step, I feel each step, carrying a pack on my back that holds everything I own in the world, holding Hilcias in my arms, walking slowly and steadily along the way.

Hilcias and I sit by the side of the road.

I give him a small sonrisa, a small smile, along with a handful of mashed tortilla, beans and mangoes.

As I touch his little hand, I feel that it is cracked like dried mud, too calloused for a little boy.

His heart is in his hands.

I kiss him tenderly on the cheek.

It's soft like the skin of a mango.

The sun has given it the color of a mango.

How I love my hijo.

I shed a tear to the earth for my bruised feet and his weathered hands.

Once, a kind priest told me, "Our God walks the earth with his feet and holds us in his hands."

As we make our way to Matamoros and the bridge to el Norte, I wonder, does God walk the earth with my feet that've been bruised by the earth?

Are God’s hands Hilcias’ hands?

Well, no matter.

Whether or not God is in my feet or Hilcias’ hands, I’m holding my child, walking with him, and traveling on.

On my bruised feet.

With my beating heart.

Una vida mejor awaits us.

I hope.

- trevor scott barton, fragments from Hilcias’ notebook, 2023