“Our bodies are the texts that carry the memories and therefore remembering is no less than reincarnation.”
“Then, like a flag, I shift my fingers to the right. I line my index to the bottom of the sun, until my fingers reach the horizon. However many fingers there are, each equals fifteen minutes to sunset. Four fingers equals an hour.”
“Grandpa isn’t here to talk to me before falling asleep, to go out for walks and explore the town, and because of that I feel alone, lonely, solo, solito, solito de verdad.”
“The sound of the wooden oar entering the water is calming. Like water taking a breath.”
“Just one more day. One more walk. We leave tomorrow at dusk, Ramón said. Always at dusk in the desert. Sunrises, sunsets, I’m starting to hate them both.”
“We look like a matchbox. Sticks on top of each other. A human cake. I’m the cherry on top, the smallest one riding on the carpet. I’m Aladdin. I finally made it through the desert.”
“Mom likes to call them my “angels,” but I worry that takes away their humanity and their nonreligious capacity for love and compassion they showed a stranger.”
“I never found out what happened to Chele, or to any of the countless others who were with me. I fear they died in the Sonoran Desert. This book is for them and for every immigrant who has crossed, who has tried to, who is crossing right now, and who will keep trying.”
The New York Times: The Harrowing Migration Story of One 9-Year-Old Child
The Washington Post: A migrant child’s long journey to Gringolandia
National Public Radio: 'Solito' is a personal story of immigration that sheds light on the universal