from the dock i look at the river with the tides going left and right. circling into shadows.
lines of waves. and one little blue boat rowed backwards and lifted high
makes its path to the other bank where huts of stick and palm leaves nestle
behind private yahts and vacation homes. where there is no school; where quiche is spoken;
where nobody in his family knows how to read.

a squinting old man, leathered by the sun rows low in the point while a boy of eight
with backpack still strapped sits in the widened front, which is the back, looks down
and around. this boy came seven months ago without knowing how to hold a pencil,
draw a straight line, with wide eyes saying i want to but i don't know your language,
which isn't mine, but it is what we speak. he still comes when there is no rain or wind,
when the blue boat is not needed to fish or go to town.

he still comes and eavesdrops. he is a silent presence over the shoulders of others.
the one standing out of line next to the child next to me.
i used to chide him for being:
lazy...and why aren't you in your seat working?
nosy...did juan invite you to hear this conversation?
a line cutter...did you ask permission to come to the front of the line?

now i see his curiousity and necessity to hear and hear again. now i wink and
gently point to his seat after explaining to saida how to subtract or alicia why it is gui
and not gi.

he reads with the f, the j, the g, the h, the ch, letters i have not presented to him, but
he knows because his brother is teaching him at the house; this, he tells me.
he has no brother. he lies, his mama tells me.

nevertheless, he just might pass to second grade.

months later: he secured math with an excellente and language with a muy bien. he will graduate and move on.