As I feel the scalding grains of sand beneath my callous feet, I remember what it was once like with lush emerald green grass soft against my toes. A light breeze turned harsh winds. I cross the threshold and see the chipped ivory paint and fond memories wash over me. My hand runs along the line where the light blue takes over the wall, how long ago was it when there were children running through these halls instead of wisps of sand? The skylight door repeatedly knocks against the rim, tap, tap, tap. When I make my way through the abandoned kitchen, I close my eyes and can still smell the fresh loaf of melt butter atop warm bread. My eyes open and I see the crushed oven. Oh how our mother used that oven in the mellow evenings, as she peered out the window seeing her children making flower crowns and running in the shaded yard. She would smile thinking about how beautiful life is. She would look onward and see the waves receding and coming back for more on the shore. At night she will walk on that beach, feel the sand between her toes and let the waves take her away. Little did her young children know, it would be the last time the sourdough would be made at the hands of their mother. I walk these halls knowing she needed that rest. She had a peaceful life and deserved a peaceful rest. I feel the scalding grains of sand knowing it was warm for her.