We come in through the window. Our feet leave silent footprints in the sand, which is up the frame, over the foundation, and piled against the siding of the house. Papa asks if I remember it. I shake my head, but Natalie speaks up. She says she’s seen the place in dreams since she was ten. She says she’s missed it on the inside too.

Papa touches the wall and calls me over. He says look here. He says touch here.

I do, even though I can’t feel what he feels.

Natalie turns around a dinner table. She climbs the small dunes on the floor and sits on the oak wood, running her fingers over the cracks and bumps like Papa did. Like she can feel the life once here.

Papa tells Natalie something—something Natalie used to say when Papa made dinner in this very kitchen. In this very kitchen, he says again and again.

Once more, and I leave. I am faster than the wind sweeping across our farm those long months, and I am angrier than the sand and grit that stuck in my family’s eyes when the great gusts were acting up.

In the sun, I turn into the sand digging, digging, digging. I am not sure why. Perhaps it is to find something lost. Perhaps it is to see if I can find my own foundation buried beneath the sand.