Guadalupe Salgado Partida

he tugs my left hand on our way to school 

He tugs at my hand with his tiny ten fingers, but I do not yet know that his palms are small because mine are just as fresh and petite as his. He pulls, pulls harder; pulls because my mother said to be a “buen estudiante,” and that is what he wants to be in preschool. But he falls asleep at his desk with his head between his arms y un cachete dripping like a fountain with saliva.

He tugs at my hand because I will make us late again for staring at the trees for too long, for staring at the cats way too much, for wanting to touch the slick surface of a petal destined yellow over a dandelion. He tugs at me, but today the swaying of the leaves pulls harder.