I claw my way from inside my home,

The sand gives under my hands in soft and useless fistfuls of nothing

that sticks in grit to my skin.

It is in my eyes,

It is in my lungs.

I choke it up to no avail, it hooks in tight to everything except itself.

I hear my baby crying, then

Nothing.

Where is my wife?

I want to scream for her, but I can’t inhale.

It flooded in like water,

Sand is not supposed to do that.

We were supposed to be safe from the floods in the desert.

I think I’ve burst through the wall, I can see only flashes of light before my eyes are scratched again.

Blink to get the grit out.

Blink to hold the grit in.

Breathe to cough the grit out.

Breathe to bury the grit in your skin.

Goodbye, Kathrine.

Goodbye, Mia,

I’m sorry mommy let you down.